William Ryan - The Holy Thief: A Novel

THE HOLY THIEF

WILLIAM RYAN

Minotaur Books New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE HOLY THIEF. Copyright 2010 by William Ryan. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.minotaurbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ryan, William, 1965

The holy thief / William Ryan. 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-312-58645-4

1. DetectivesRussia (Federation)MoscowFiction. 2. AmericansCrimes againstRussia (Federation)Fiction. 3. MurderInvestigationRussia (Federation)MoscowFiction. 4. Soviet UnionPolitics and government19361953Fiction. I. Title.

PR6118.Y37 H65 2010

823.92dc22

2010021268

First published in the Great Britain by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd.

First U.S. Edition: September 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Joanne

In the still air of the sacristy the only sounds were the slow dripping of her blood onto the marble floor and the faint whisper of her breathing. In, out, in, outthen a lengthy pause before the ragged rhythm began again. She was nearly gone.

It had been a messy business. Shed bled a lot, which was to be expected, although it still made him uncomfortable. But what else could he have done? When there wasnt time to unpick a person mentally, to grind them downthen you had to use pain and terror. Even if it wasnt necessarily the most professional, or even the most effective, approach. Hed hoped he could shock her into submission, but, in the end, shed simply outlasted the time hed had available. It was a shame. Sometimes he only had to put on one of the gauntlets, slowly, perhaps making a fist so that the stiff leather creaked as it stretched across his knuckles, and that would be enough. Theyd start gabbling so fast the only problem was having a typist quick enough to keep up with them. He preferred it that way, of coursethey were more pleasant, the straightforward interrogations. But for every gabbling goose there was a rockand the girl had been of the granite variety.

Everything hed tried had failed. If hed had more time, maybe he would have succeeded, but hed only had these two hours. Two hours for a mind like that? Strongclosed tight like a metal box. It wasnt enough. They wouldnt be happy, but what did they expect? Hed warned them after all. If he could have softened her up firstno sleep for a few days, a hot cell, a freezing cell, complete darkness, complete silence. Well, then he could have made some progress. With time and the right tools he could have found out things from her she didnt even know she knew herself. Instead, hed had nothing to work with, reallyjust his leather apron, his gauntlets and a couple of hours in the back of some church.

He didnt like that either. It was sanctioned, of courseat the highest levels theyd said. But even so. If he was disturbed, the situation would be difficult to explainparticularly now, with her blood pooling underneath the altar. Anyone coming in off the street would think he was a madman.

Her breathing slowed again and he looked down at his evenings work. Her eyes, two huge black pupils surrounded by a narrow halo of gold-flecked almond, had accepted what was happening to her, and the light was slowly dimming in them. He looked for fear, but there was none. It often happened that way; at a certain point they went past fear, and even pain, and it was the Devils own job to bring them back. He leaned in closer, wondering if one of these days he might catch a glimpse of the next world through eyes such as hers. He searched, but there was nothingher gaze was fixed on the ceiling above them and that was all. There was a painting up there of the saints in heaven, and maybe her gaze was fixed on that. He moved his head forward to block her view, but her eyes just looked straight through him.

At least when he was this close to her the stench was less oppressive. He could still detect the damp syrupy smell of her blood, but there was also the scent of soap and wet hair and something about the mixture that reminded him of a child. He remembered it from when his son had been newly borna warm, happy aroma that had filled his heart. He wondered where shed found the soapthere was little in the ordinary shops this year. You might get some in a closed shop or a currency shop, but even then it wasnt always available. He puzzled about the soap for a moment, and then rememberedshed probably brought it with her. American soap. Of course, that made sense. Capitalist soap.

Still, he was surprised to feel something approaching sympathy for the girl. Tears had washed away some of the blood from her cheeks and she looked quite beautiful, her delicate nostrils dilating minutely as she breathed. He held his own breath for a moment, irrationally concerned that exhaling might fog those bottomless eyes of hers. He swallowed and then put the emotion aside. This was no time for self-indulgence. From the very first day, theyd drummed into him the dangers of misplaced pity, and the mistakes it caused. Hed have to revive her, make one last effort.

He put a finger to her neck: the pulse was still there, but barely detectable. He stood up and reached for the smelling salts. There was blood on the bottlehed used it twice alreadyand a part of him wanted to let her go in peace, but he had his instructions, and even if the likelihood shed tell him anything was remote, there was still a chance. He uncorked the bottle and pulled her head toward him. She tried to twist away from his hand, but the movement was weak.

There seemed to be no change at first, but, when he turned to put the bottle back in his bag, her eyes followed him and, what was more, she seemed to be trying to speak. He picked up his knife and ran the blade down along her cheek, cutting skin and material together in his hurry to remove the gag. She coughed as he pulled the cloth awayblood had smeared her white teeth and he noted how thin and gray her lips were. Her breathing had quickened with the effort, but now she calmed a little, swallowed and focused on him. He leaned slightly to the side to hear what she might say, without breaking eye contact, and she whispered something indistinct. He shook his head and leaned further forward, waiting for her to try again. She took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving his.

I forgive you, she said, and it was almost as if he amused her.

It was later than usual when Captain Alexei Dmitriyevich Korolev climbed the steps in front of Number 38 Petrovka Street, headquarters of the Moscow Militias Criminal Investigation Division. The morning had started badly, wasnt getting any better and he still hadnt shaken off the pounding vodka headache from the night before, so it was with weary resignation rather than Stakhanovite enthusiasm that he pushed open one of the heavy oak doors. It took his eyes, dazzled from walking into the flat morning sun, a moment to adjust to the relative darkness of the vestibule, and it didnt help that thick clouds of masonry dust swirled around where hed expected to find uniformed duty officers and bustling activity. He stopped for a moment, confused, wondering what on earth was going on and looking for a source of all the dust and debris. He was rewarded with a blurred movement that shifted the billowing haze on the landingup where the statue of former General Commissar of State Security, Genrikh Grigoryevich Yagoda, stood. The movement was cut short by the crash of something very solid hitting what he strongly suspected was the plinth on which the commissars statue rested. The noise, amplified by the marble floor and walls of the atrium, hit Korolev like a slap.