‘I’m fine,’ he said, surprised by how much blood there was – his fingers were red with the stuff and he dragged them down the wall to clean some of it off. ‘We need to think what to do with these guns, Slivka. And these bandits for that matter. Greek,’ he said, turning to the doughty forensics man, ‘can you find your way out of here?’
The Greek nodded.
‘And back as well?’
The Greek nodded again.
‘I need you to get above with the prisoners. Slivka, you’ll go with him. Get our men down here as soon as possible. If a couple of them managed to get free, they might chance it and come back – so time is important. If you’re not sure of the way, Kolya will lend you his guide.’
But Kolya shook his head when Korolev looked to him for confirmation.
‘That can’t be, Korolev. We worked together on this job because we had good reasons to – to go after these rats who were killing ours. But if I sent Mole with you, that would be something else again.’
The other Thieves nodded their agreement, and Korolev understood. The Thieves’ code forbade them helping the Militia or any other representative of the State. Not for the first time Kolya had bent those rules when it came to Korolev, but the justification for it this time no longer existed.
‘Don’t worry, Korolev,’ Kolya said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘We’ll keep to our part of the deal.’
‘Come back as soon as you can,’ Korolev instructed the Greek, who nodded, looking deliberately at each of the Thieves as if to remember their faces. Korolev shared his concern, but he wasn’t about to admit it.
‘You’d best be off before our people arrive,’ Korolev said, as his colleagues and the prisoners left. All the Thieves’ eyes were on him now, and they seemed to be waiting for something. Mishka had that slanting smile of his that boded no good and Korolev found that his hand had slid under the belly of his machine gun of its own accord and that he was pleased to feel the cold metal of the trigger against his forefinger.
‘Yes, we’ll be off soon enough,’ Kolya agreed, leaving something unsaid – as if he were considering how to broach an awkward subject.
‘Off you go, then,’ Korolev said, moving backwards to lean against the nearest wall. He tried to do it nonchalantly, but it seemed he’d convinced few of his audience, and certainly not Mishka, whose smile broadened as he opened that hand cannon of his and discarded the empty brass bullet casings, dropping each one theatrically to the ground, where they bounced and rolled, and then filling the chambers left vacant with live bullets extracted from the pocket of his jacket.
‘We have something we need to take with us, Korolev,’ Kolya said eventually. Polite, but firm. Well, Korolev thought, bracing himself – at least the others were clear of this now, with luck.
‘I thought we had a deal, Kolya. Those guns are going nowhere.’
‘Not the guns, Korolev. The leather suitcases over there in the corner, I think. The guns you can keep.’
Korolev saw the two bags he was talking about. Battered brown leather. No distinguishing marks. He looked round at Kolya’s men and saw that there wasn’t one of them didn’t have a gun in his hand. And the truth of it was if he tried to stop them, it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d done well to make it this far into the night, and there was a long way to go till morning.
‘What’s in them?’
‘Money. You can’t start a revolution with bullets alone.’
Korolev nodded, looked around him at the determined faces and nodded once again.
‘What bags?’ he asked, when his mind was made up.
‘That’s very reasonable of you, Alexei Dmitriyevich,’ Kolya said.
‘I’m a reasonable man, and I have more important things to do this evening than worry about a couple of bags I never saw.’
‘Mishka, Fox?’ Kolya said, turning his head slightly to speak over his shoulder. ‘Take a hold of those things and let’s be on our way.’
When Mishka and Fox had the bags in their hands, the Chief Authority of the Thieves of Moscow raised a finger to his forehead and saluted Korolev, then followed his men down the far tunnel.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Korolev looked at his watch – ten minutes past nine – and sat down on one of the wooden crates, wondering how the hell he’d got into such a situation. It was unheard of, really. Maybe in Chicago the gangsters had shoot-outs like this, but you didn’t expect such a thing in the Soviet Union. Of course, there were criminals here just as there were in the Capitalist countries, but this was extraordinary. To have so many dead in one place outside of a war was unbelievable. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, looking down into the empty eyes of one of the gunrunners. It made you wonder. It certainly made you wonder.
The trembling that he’d managed to suppress until that point started up again in his left foot. He tried to stop it by wedging the toe of his boot into the gap between a crate and the wall, but that did nothing. The trembling spread up to his knees. He was cold, so very, very cold. What the hell was wrong with him? He pulled an arm across his face, feeling his coat sleeve pushing a layer of sweat across the skin as he did. He was worn out, that was all. Tired. And then this damned bloodbath. And how close death had been this evening. He looked down at the dead terrorist and thought how easily it could have been him lying there, an empty husk of cold skin and bone.
When he was calm again, he gathered the dead men’s guns from the surrounding tunnels – for something to do as much as anything else. There were sixteen corpses altogether, and that wasn’t even counting the unwilling guide whose throat Kolya had slit before the main shooting had started. And all he wanted was to get out of this tunnel and out of this city and away from this place as soon as could possibly be managed. Back to Moscow, where he knew what was what, more or less.
He’d put the last of the weapons with the ones he’d gathered earlier into an empty crate when he heard the sound. Nothing at all, probably, but he hid behind a pile of crates, putting a round into the chamber of his machine gun. Another more distinct noise, like the sound a hob-nailed boot makes when it is trying to move quietly.
He didn’t recognize the youngster who came into the room, but he had the look of a Chekist about him – a well-built fellow in a short black woollen overcoat, grey cavalry trousers twisted into high brown boots that glinted in the light from the two remaining lanterns. He also had a punchy-looking revolver in his hand and an expression of extreme apprehension. Korolev watched the Chekist’s gun barrel draw wide arcs in the air as it led his gaze around the destruction until eventually he saw Korolev and the machine gun. The Chekist gave an explosive gasp of fear and his hands, gun included, flew upwards in a declaration of surrender. Korolev doubted he’d come all this way on his own, so he decided to keep quiet and wait and see what happened next.
‘We have you surrounded,’ a familiar voice called in from the next chamber along. ‘Put down your weapons and you’ll be treated fairly.’
‘Come on in, Comrade Major,’ Korolev called out, deciding to play the situation straight. ‘The room is secured.’
‘Korolev?’
‘The same, Comrade Major. And pleased you’ve shown up, I can tell you.’ Korolev hadn’t intended his words to sound ironic, but there it was. Mushkin came round the corner, his gun pointing at the floor and a look of bemusement on his face as he looked at the dead men and crates full of guns. He even smiled as he slipped his pistol into the holster of the Sam Browne belt he had strapped across his chest.
‘Well, Korolev, you’ve been busy I see,’ he said, turning to the young Chekist. ‘Put your hands down, Petrov. This is Korolev, the Militia expert from Moscow.’
‘No, he can keep them up for the moment, Comrade Major. You too, for that matter.’
‘What’s this, Korolev?’ Mushkin asked.