Free The Holy Thief by William Ryan

started calling the stranger “Papa?” Would he even remember Korolev the next time they met?
    Korolev put the handwritten pages in order, wrote a request for four copies, then took out his hat from the bottom drawer of the desk in preparation for the walk home. Zagorsk was just too damned far away—but he’d make the trip in the spring, no matter what.
    On the way out he stopped on the first floor and knocked at a wooden window, which guarded the all-female typing pool as though it were an Ottoman harem. A moment passed before the panel slid back and a tired female face peered out at him. He couldn’t remember seeing her before and he watched her examine his epaulettes, noticing the slight stiffening of posture that they brought.
    “Yes, Captain? Something urgent?”
    “A report for the general. He needs it for tomorrow morning. Four copies altogether.”
    “Four copies.” The woman flicked back her gray-streaked brown hair from her eyes as she examined the papers. The gesture was almost sensuous. “Captain Korolev,” she read. “That’s you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Eight o’clock in the morning?”
    “Thank you.” He thought he saw the ghost of a smile lighten her features. “One thing, though. It’s not one for an inexperienced typist. It’s a murder, a young woman—not very pleasant. Probably best to give it to someone who’s been here a bit longer.”
    She took a quick look at the first page, raised her eyebrows and nodded her head gravely in agreement, then smiled before sliding the panel shut.
    He walked home, keeping to the main thoroughfares and maintaining a good pace. There were the usual queues outside the late-night shops and tired groups of workers, covered from head to toe in grime, were making their way back to their hostels, passing their replacements, only a little cleaner, heading in the opposite direction. There were students, hands bunching threadbare coats around their throats, and, even this close to the Kremlin, beggars with the dead eyes of the starving. There were more of them recently—despite it being a criminal offense with a five-year ticket attached. Yet, for all the people, there was not much noise. The rumble of a truck passing drowned out what little conversation there was. It was as if the citizens suspected they were being listened to, and Korolev suspected they might have a point.
    Turning a corner, Korolev saw two men with the strange pigeon walk that marked them out as belonging to the caste of Thieves. They recognized him for what he was as well, but showed no obvious reaction, except that one made a comment to the other as they walked by. Of all the people he’d passed they were the only ones who seemed relaxed. The Party believed in the principle of re-education for criminals, and so hooligans and bandits were receiving political lectures rather than lengthy sentences. What was more, Korolev, as a policeman, suspected the only real education the Thieves received in the Zone, as the camp and prison system was known, was from other Thieves. And the leniency to professional criminals meant Soviet cities weren’t as safe as they should be.
    It was a different story for political prisoners, of course—they were punished to the full extent of the law.
    Still, the streets seemed quiet tonight, perhaps because it was cold, certainly below freezing point. He looked up at the dark sky lurking above the street lights and wondered if it would snow. He turned the corner of the Lubianka and, as usual, scanned the street ahead for trouble. It was more out of habit than from a perception of risk—after all, any sane criminal would stay well clear of the NKVD headquarters—so he was surprised when he saw black cars pulled up outside the Dzherzhinskaya Metro station and a crowd that swirled and jostled with excitement.
    As he approached, the several hundred people seemingly laying siege to the station entrance appeared all the stranger. Perhaps it was a terrorist attack or an