11 February 1953
The snowball thumped into the back of Jora’s head. Caught by surprise, snow exploded around his ears. Somewhere behind him he could hear his little brother laughing, laughing really loudly — proud of himself, proud of that shot even though it was a fluke, a one-off. Jora brushed the ice off his jacket collar but fragments had already snuck down his back. They were melting, sliding down his skin, leaving snail-trails of freezing water. He tugged his shirt out of his trousers, reaching his hand up as far as he could, scraping at the ice.
Unable to believe his older brother’s complacency — busy with his shirt instead of checking on his opponent — Arkady took his time, clumping together the snow, handful on top of handful. Too large and the snowball became a dud shot: difficult to throw, slow in the air and easy to dodge. That had been his mistake for a long time, making them too big. Instead of having a greater impact they could be swatted out of the air and more often than not they disintegrated of their own accord, falling apart and not even reaching his brother. He and Jora played in the snow a lot. Sometimes there were other children but most of the time it was just the two of them. The games would start casually, growing more and more competitive with each hit. Arkady never won in so far as anyone could be said to win. He was always overwhelmed by the speed and power of his brother’s throws. The games ended the same way: frustration, surrender, getting annoyed, or worse, crying and storming off. He hated that he was always the loser, and worse, he hated that he got so upset about it. The only reason he kept playing was because he was sure that today would be different, today he’d win. And today was that day. Here was his chance. He edged closer but not too close: he wanted the shot to count. Point-blank didn’t count.
Jora saw it coming: a glob of white arcing through the air, not too big, not too small, just like the kind he’d throw. There was nothing he could do. His hands were behind his back. He had to admit his little brother was learning fast.
The snowball struck the tip of his nose, breaking into his eyes, going up his nose, in his mouth. He stepped back, his face encrusted with white. It was a perfect shot — that was the end of the game. He’d been beaten by his little brother, a boy who wasn’t even five years old. Yet only now that he’d lost for the first time did he appreciate the importance of winning. His brother was laughing again — making a real show of it, like a snowball in the face was the funniest thing. Well, at least he never gloated like Arkady was doing now; he never laughed that much or squeezed that much satisfaction from his victories. His little brother was a bad loser and an even worse winner. The boy needed to be taught a lesson, cut down to size. He’d won one game, that was all: one fluky, insignificant game, one game out of a hundred: no — one out of a thousand. And now he was pretending that somehow they were even, or worse that he was better than him? Jora crouched down, digging through the snow, all the way to the icy ground below, collecting a handful of frozen mud and grit and stones.
Seeing his older brother making another snowball, Arkady turned and ran. This would be a revenge shot: put together with care and thrown with as much power as his brother could manage. He wasn’t going to be at the receiving end of one of those. If he ran he’d be safe. The shot, no matter how well made, no matter how accurate, could only travel so far in the air before it began to lose shape, fall apart. And even if it hit, after a certain distance they were harmless, barely worth throwing at all. If he ran, he could finish on a high. He didn’t want his victory overturned, tainted by a succession of quick hits from his brother. No: run and claim success. Finish the game now. He’d be able to enjoy the feeling until at least tomorrow when he’d probably lose again. But that was tomorrow. Today was victory.
He heard his brother shout his name. And he looked back, still running, smiling — sure that he was out of any effective range.
The impact was like a fist in his face. His head flicked round, his feet left the ground and for a second he was floating in the air. When his feet touched the ground again his legs collapsed under him, he fell, crumpled — too dazed to even put his hands out — crashing into the snow. For a moment he just lay there, unable to understand what had happened. There was grit, mud, spit and blood in his mouth. He tentatively pushed a mitten-covered fingertip between his lips. His teeth felt coarse like he’d been force-fed sand. There was a gap. A tooth had been knocked out. Beginning to cry, he spat into the snow, raking through the mess, looking for his missing tooth. For some reason that was all he could think about right now, that was all he cared about. He had to find his tooth. Where was it? But he couldn’t find it, not against the white of the snow. It was gone. And it wasn’t the pain, it was the anger, outrage at this injustice. Couldn’t he win one game? He’d won it fairly. Couldn’t his brother give him that?
Jora ran towards his brother. As soon as the clump of mud, grit, ice and stones had left his hand he’d regretted his decision. He’d shouted out his brother’s name, wanting him to duck, to avoid the shot. Instead, Arkady had turned around directly into the impact. Instead of helping him, it had seemed like a particularly malicious flourish. As he approached he saw blood on the snow and felt sick. He’d done this. He’d turned their game, a game he enjoyed as much as he enjoyed anything, into something terrible. Why couldn’t he have let his brother win? He would’ve won tomorrow and the day after and the day after. He felt ashamed.
Jora dropped to the snow, putting a hand on his little brother’s shoulder. Arkady shook it off, staring up with red, tear-filled eyes and a bloody mouth, looking like a savage animal. He didn’t say anything. His whole face was tight with anger. He got to his feet, a little unsteady.
— Arkady?
In reply his little brother just opened his mouth and cried out, making an animalistic sound. All Jora could see was a set of dirty teeth. Arkady turned around and ran away.
— Arkady, wait!
But Arkady didn’t wait — didn’t stop, didn’t want to hear his brother’s apology. He ran as fast as he could, his tongue searching for the newly made gap in his front teeth. Finding it, feeling the gum with the tip of his tongue, he hoped he’d never see his brother again.
14 February
Leo stared up at Apartment Block 18–a low-rise, squat slab of grey concrete. It was late afternoon, already dark. An entire working day had been lost to a task that was as unpleasant as it was unimportant. According to the militia incident report, a boy aged four years and ten months had been found dead on the railway lines. The boy had been playing on the tracks, at night, last night, and was caught by a passenger train; his body was cut up by the wheels. The driver of the 21.00 to Khabarovsk had communicated at his first stop that he’d caught a glimpse of someone or something on the tracks shortly after leaving Yaroslavskiy Vokzal station. Whether that train had actually hit the boy wasn’t yet established. Maybe the driver didn’t want to admit to hitting the child. But there was no need to press the issue: it was a tragic accident with no question of blame. The matter should’ve already been closed.
Ordinarily there was no reason Leo Stepanovich Demidov — an up-and-coming member of the MGB, the State Security force — would have become involved in this kind of incident. What was there for him to do? The loss of a son was heartbreaking for the family and relatives. But, bluntly, it was meaningless at a national level. Careless children, unless they were careless with their tongues, were not State Security concerns. However, this particular situation had become unexpectedly complicated. The parents’ grief had taken a peculiar form. It seems they were unable to accept that their son (Leo checked the report — committing the name Arkady Fyodorovich Andreev to memory) had been responsible for his own death. They’d been telling people that he’d been murdered. By whom — they had no idea. For what reason — they had no idea. How could such a thing even be possible — once again, they had no idea. Yet even without a logical, plausible argument they had an emotive power on their side. There was the very real possibility they were convincing other gullible people: neighbours, friends and strangers — whoever might listen.
To aggravate the situation further, the boy’s father, Fyodor Andreev, was himself a low-ranking member of the MGB and, as it happened, one of Leo’s subordinates. Aside from the fact that he should know better, he was bringing the MGB into disrepute by using the weight of his authority to give credibility to this unfeasible assertion. He’d crossed a line. He’d let his feelings cloud his judgement. Had the circumstances not been mitigating, Leo’s task here might well have been this man’s arrest. The whole thing was a mess. And Leo had been forced to take temporary leave from a sensitive, genuine assignment in order to straighten the matter out.
Not looking forward to the confrontation with Fyodor, Leo took his time walking up the stairs, contemplating how he had ended up here — policing people’s reactions. He’d never intended to join the State Security Department; the career had grown out of his military service. During the Great Patriotic War he’d been recruited for a special-forces unit — OMSBON, the Independent Motor-rifle Brigade for Special Tasks. The third and fourth battalions of this unit had been selected from the Central Institute of Physical Culture, where he’d been a student. Hand-picked for athleticism and physical prowess they were taken to a training camp at Mytishchi, just north of Moscow, where they were taught close combat, weapons training, low-altitude parachuting and the use of explosives. The camp belonged to the NKVD, as the secret police was known before State Security became the MGB. The battalions came under the direct authority of the NKVD, not the military, and the nature of their missions reflected this. Sent behind enemy lines, destroying infrastructure, collecting information, carrying out assassinations — they were clandestine raiders.
Leo had enjoyed the independence of his operations, although he was careful to keep that observation to himself. He liked the fact, or perhaps just the impression, that his fate had been in his hands. He’d flourished. As a result he’d been awarded the Order of Suvorov 2nd Class. His level-headedness, military success, good looks and above all his absolute and sincere belief in his country had resulted in him becoming a poster boy — quite literally — for the Soviet liberation of German-occupied territory. He and a gaggle of soldiers from a patchwork of divisions were photographed surrounding the burning wreck of a German panzer, guns in the air, victory on their faces, dead soldiers at their feet. In the background, smoke rose from smouldering villages. Destruction and death and triumphant smiles — Leo, with his good set of teeth and broad shoulders, was ushered to the front of the photograph. One week later the photograph had made the front page of Pravda and Leo was being congratulated by strangers, troops, civilians, people who’d wanted to shake his hand, embrace him, this symbol of victory.
After the war Leo had moved from OMSBON into the NKVD itself. That progression had seemed logical. He hadn’t asked any questions: it was a path lain down by his superiors and he’d walked it, head held high. His country could have asked anything of him and he would’ve readily agreed. He would’ve run Gulags in the Arctic tundra of the Kolyma region had they asked him. His only ambition was a general one: to serve his country, a country that had defeated Fascism, a country that provided free education and healthcare, that trumpeted the rights of the workers around the world, that paid his father — a munitions worker on an assembly line — a salary comparable to that of a fully qualified doctor. Although his own employment in the State Security force was frequently unpleasant he understood its necessity, the necessity of guarding their revolution from enemies both foreign and domestic, from those who sought to undermine it and those determined to see it fail. To this end Leo would lay down his life. To this end he’d lay down the lives of others.
None of this heroism or military training had any relevance today. Here was no enemy. This was a colleague, a friend, a grief-stricken father. And yet, even so, this was an MGB protocol and this father in mourning was the subject. Leo needed to tread carefully. He couldn’t allow himself to be swayed by the same feelings that were blinding Fyodor. This hysteria was putting a good family in danger. If left unchecked the groundless chatter about murder could grow like a weed, spreading through the community, unsettling people, making them question one of the fundamental pillars of their new society:
There is no crime.
Few people believed this absolutely. There were blemishes: this was a society still in transition, not perfect yet. As an MGB officer it was Leo’s duty to study the works of Lenin, in fact it was every citizen’s duty. He knew that social excesses — crime — would wither away as poverty and want disappeared. They hadn’t reached that plateau yet. Things were stolen, drunken disputes became violent: there were the urki—the criminal gangs. But people had to believe that they were moving towards a better state of existence. To call this murder, was to take a giant step backwards. Leo had been taught by his superior officer, his mentor Major Janusz Kuzmin, about the trials of 1937 where the accused had been briefed by Stalin that they had:
Lost faith
Enemies of the Party were not merely saboteurs, spies and wreckers of industry, but doubters of the Party line, doubters of the society which awaited them. Applying that rule, Fyodor, Leo’s friend and colleague, had indeed become an enemy.
Leo’s mission was to quash any unfounded speculation, to guide them back from the brink. Talk of murder had a natural drama which no doubt appealed to certain types of fanciful people. If it came to it he’d be harsh: the boy had made a mistake for which he’d paid with his life. No one else need suffer for his carelessness. Maybe that was too much. He needn’t go so far. This could be resolved tactfully. They were upset — that was all. Be patient with them. They weren’t thinking straight. Present the facts. He wasn’t here to threaten them, at least not immediately: he was here to help them. He was here to restore faith.
Leo knocked and Fyodor opened the door. Leo bowed his head.
— I’m very sorry for your loss.
Fyodor stepped back, allowing Leo into the room.
Every seat was taken. The room was crowded, as though a village meeting had been called. There were elderly people, children — it was obvious that the entire family had gathered. In this kind of atmosphere it was easy to imagine how feelings had been whipped up. No doubt they’d encouraged each other to think that there was some mysterious force to blame for their little boy’s death. Maybe that made their loss easier to come to terms with. Maybe they felt guilty for not teaching the boy to stay clear of the raiway lines. Leo recognized some of the faces around him. They were Fyodor’s friends from work. And they were suddenly embarrassed at being caught here. They didn’t know what to do, avoiding eye contact, wanting to leave but unable to. Leo turned to Fyodor.
— It might be easier to talk if it was just the two of us?
— Please, this is my family: they want to hear what you have to say.
Leo glanced around — twenty or so sets of eyes were fixed on him. They already knew what he was going to say and they did not like him for it. They were angry that their boy had died and this was their way of expressing that hurt. Leo would simply have to accept that he was the focal point for their anger.
— I can think of nothing worse than the loss of a child. I was your colleague and friend when you and your wife celebrated the birth of your son. I remember congratulating you. And it is with terrible sadness that I find myself consoling you.
A little stiff perhaps but Leo meant it sincerely. It was met with silence. Leo considered his next words carefully.
— I’ve never experienced the grief that follows the loss of a child. I don’t know how it would make me react. Perhaps I would feel the need to blame someone, someone I could hate. But, with a clear head, I can assure you that the cause of Arkady’s death is not in dispute. I have brought with me the report, which I can leave with you if you wish. In addition to this I’ve been sent to answer any questions you might have.
— Arkady was murdered. We want your help in investigating, if not you personally then we would like the MGB to place pressure on the procurator to open a criminal case.
Leo nodded, trying to maintain an air of reconciliation. It was the worst possible beginning to their discussion. The father was adamant: their position entrenched. He was demanding the formal opening of an ugolovnoye delo, a criminal case, without which the militia wouldn’t investigate. He was calling for the impossible. Leo stared at the men from work. They realized, whereas the others did not, that this word—murder—tarnished everyone in the room.
— Arkady was caught by a passing train. His death was an accident, a terrible accident.
— Then why was he naked? Why was his mouth stuffed with dirt?
Leo tried to fathom what had just been said. The boy was naked? That was the first he’d heard of it. He opened the report.
The boy was found clothed.
Now that he read the line again it struck him as an odd stipulation. But there it was: the boy was clothed. He continued to scan the document:
Having been dragged along the ground his mouth contained dirt.
He closed the report. The room was waiting.
— Your boy was found fully clothed. Yes, there was dirt in his mouth. But his body was dragged by the train; some dirt in his mouth is to be expected.
An elderly woman stood up. Although stooped by age, her eyes were sharp.
— That is not what we were told.
— It’s very unfortunate, but you’ve been misinformed.
The woman pressed ahead. Evidently she was a significant power behind this speculation.
— The man who found the body — Taras Kuprin — was scavenging. He lives two streets away. He told us Arkady was naked, you hear? Not wearing a single item of clothing. A collision with a train doesn’t undress a boy.
— This man, Kuprin, did indeed find the body. His statement is in this report. He claims the body was found on the tracks, fully clothed. He’s quite clear about that. His words are here in black and white.
— Why did he tell us differently?
— Maybe he was confused. I don’t know. But I have this man’s signature on his statement and his statement is in the report. I doubt he would say anything differently if I asked him now.
— Have you seen the boy’s body?
Her question took Leo by surprise.
— I’m not investigating this incident: that is not my job. But even if it were, there’s nothing to investigate. This is a terrible accident. I’m here to speak to you, to make things clear when they’ve been unnecessarily confused. I can read you the entire report aloud if you like.
The elderly woman spoke again.
— That report is a lie.
Everyone tensed. Leo remained silent, struggling to stay calm. They had to realize that there was no compromise. They had to concede, they had to accept that their little boy died an unfortunate death. Leo was here for their benefit. He turned to Fyodor, waiting for him to correct this woman.
Fyodor stepped forward.
— Leo, we have new evidence, evidence which has come to light today. A woman who lives in an apartment looking out over the tracks saw Arkady with a man. We don’t know any more than that. This woman is not a friend of ours. We’ve never met her before. She heard about the murder—
— Fyodor…
— She heard about my son’s death. And if what we’ve been told is true, she can describe this man. She’d be able to recognize him.
— Where is this woman?
— We’re waiting for her now.
— She’s coming here? I’d be interested in hearing what she has to say.
Leo was offered a chair. He waved it away. He’d stand.
No one spoke, everyone waiting for the knock on the door. Leo regretted not taking that chair. Almost an hour passed, in silence, before a faint knock was heard. Fyodor opened the door, introducing himself and showing the woman in. She was perhaps thirty years old: a kind face, large, nervous eyes. Startled at all the people, Fyodor tried to comfort her.
— These are my friends and family. There’s no need to be alarmed.
But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at Leo.
— My name is Leo Stepanovich. I’m an MGB officer. I’m in charge. What is your name?
Leo took out his pad, finding a fresh page. The woman didn’t reply. He glanced up. She still hadn’t said anything. Leo was about to repeat the question when she finally spoke.
— Galina Shaporina.
Her voice was a whisper.
— And what did you see?
— I saw…
She looked about the room, then at the floor, then back at Leo, relapsing into silence. Fyodor prompted her, tension evident in his voice:
— You saw a man?
— Yes, a man.
Fyodor, standing right beside her, his eyes drilling into her, sighed with relief. She continued:
— A man, a worker perhaps, on the railway — I saw him through my window. It was very dark.
Leo tapped his pad with his pencil.
— You saw him with a young boy?
— No, there was no boy.
Fyodor’s mouth dropped, his words rushed out.
— But we were told you saw a man holding my little boy’s hand.
— No, no, no — there was no boy. He was holding a bag, I think — a bag full of tools. Yes, that was it. He was working on the tracks, repairing them perhaps. I didn’t see very much, a glimpse, that’s all. I shouldn’t really be here. I’m very sorry your son died.
Leo shut his pad.
— Thank you.
— Will there be any further questions?
Before Leo could answer, Fyodor took the woman by the arm.
— You saw a man.
The woman pulled her arm free. She looked about the room, at all the eyes on her. She turned to Leo.
— Will you need to visit me at a later date?
— No. You can go.
Galina dropped her face to the floor, hurrying to the front door. But before she reached it the elderly woman called out:
— You lose your nerve so easily?
Fyodor approached the elderly woman.
— Please, sit down.
She nodded, neither disgusted nor approving.
— Arkady was your son.
— Yes.
Leo couldn’t see Fyodor’s eyes. He wondered what silent communication was passing between these two people. Whatever it was, she took her seat. During all of this Galina had slipped away.
Leo was pleased Fyodor had intervened. He hoped that they’d reached a turning point. Scratching together gossip and rumour served no one. Fyodor returned to Leo’s side.
— Forgive my mother, she’s very upset.
— This is why I’m here. So we can talk this through within the confines of this room. What cannot happen is that once I leave this room, the conversation continues. If anyone asks you about your son you cannot say he was murdered. Not because I order you to but because it is not true.
— We understand.
— Fyodor, I want you to take tomorrow off. This has been authorized. If there’s anything more I can do for you…
— Thank you.
At the door to the apartment Fyodor shook Leo’s hand.
— We’re all very upset. Forgive us any outbursts.
— They’ll pass unrecorded. But, as I said, this ends here.
Fyodor’s face stiffened. He nodded. As though the words were bitter he forced them out:
— My son’s death was a terrible accident.
Leo walked down the stairs, breathing deeply. The atmosphere in that room had been suffocating. He was glad to be done, glad the matter had been resolved. Fyodor was a good man. Once he came to terms with his son’s death then the truth would be easier to accept.
He paused. There was the sound of someone behind him. He turned around. It was a boy, no more than seven or eight years old.
— Sir, I am Jora. I’m Arkady’s older brother. May I speak to you?
— Of course.
— It’s my fault.
— What was your fault?
— My brother’s death: I threw a snowball at him. I’d packed it with stones and dirt and grit. Arkady was hurt, it hit him in the head. He ran off. Maybe it made him dizzy, maybe that’s why he couldn’t see the train. The dirt they found in his mouth: that was my fault. I threw it at him.
— Your brother’s death was an accident. There’s no reason for you to feel any guilt. But you did well telling me the truth. Now go back to your parents.
— I haven’t told them about the snowball with dirt and the mud and the stones.
— Perhaps they don’t need to know.
— They’d be so angry. Because that was the last time I ever saw him. Sir, we played nicely most of the time. And we would’ve played nicely again, we would’ve made up, we would’ve been friends again, I’m sure of it. But now I can’t make it up to him, I can’t ever say sorry.
Leo was hearing this boy’s confession. The boy wanted forgiveness. He’d begun to cry. Embarrassed, Leo patted his head, muttering, as though they were the words of a lullaby:
— It was no one’s fault.
Same Day
Anatoly Brodsky hadn’t slept in three days. He was so tired that even the most basic tasks required concentration. The barn door in front of him was locked. He knew he’d have to force it open. Even so the idea seemed far-fetched. He simply didn’t have the energy. Snow had begun to fall. He looked up at the night sky; his mind drifted and when he eventually remembered where he was and what he was supposed to be doing snow was settling on his face. He licked the flakes across his lips and realized that if he didn’t get inside he was going to die. Concentrating, he kicked the door. The hinges shook, the door remained shut. He kicked again. Timbers splintered. Encouraged by the sound he summoned the last sparks of energy and aimed a third kick at the lock. The wood cracked, the door swung back. He stood at the entrance, adjusting to the gloom. On one side of the barn there were two cows in an enclosure. On the other side there were tools, straw. He spread some of the coarse sacks on the frozen ground, buttoned his coat and lay down, crossing his arms and closing his eyes.
From his bedroom window, Mikhail Zinoviev could see that the barn door was open. It was swaying backwards and forwards in the wind and snow was swirling into his barn. He turned around. His wife was in bed, asleep. Deciding not to disturb her, he quietly put on his coat, his felt boots and went outside.
The wind had picked up, whipping loose snow off the ground and flinging it into Mikhail’s face. He raised his hand, sheltering his eyes. As he approached the barn, glancing through his fingers he could see the lock had been smashed, the door kicked open. He peered inside and after adjusting to the absence of moonlight he saw the outline of a man lying on the ground against the straw. Without any clear sense of what he was about to do, he entered the barn, took hold of a pitchfork, stepped up to the sleeping figure, raising the prongs above the man’s stomach, ready to jab down.
Anatoly opened his eyes and saw snow-covered boots centimetres from his face. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the man looming over him. The prongs of a pitchfork were directly above his stomach, quivering. Neither man moved. Their breath formed a mist in front of their faces which appeared and disappeared. Anatoly didn’t try to grab the pitchfork. He didn’t try to move out of the way.
They remained like this, frozen mid-frame, until a feeling of shame overcame Mikhail. He gasped as though he’d been punched in the stomach by some invisible force, dropping the pitchfork harmlessly to the ground, sinking to his knees.
— Please forgive me.
Anatoly sat up. The adrenaline had jolted him awake but his body ached. How long had he been asleep? Not long, not long enough. His voice was hoarse, his throat dry.
— I understand. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have asked for your help. You have your family to think of. I’ve put you in danger. It is I who should be asking for your forgiveness.
Mikhail shook his head.
— I was afraid. I panicked. Forgive me.
Anatoly glanced out at the snow and darkness. He couldn’t leave now. He wouldn’t survive. Of course he couldn’t allow himself to sleep. But he did still need shelter. Mikhail was waiting for an answer, waiting for forgiveness.
— There’s nothing to forgive. You’re not to blame. I might have done the same.
— But you’re my friend.
— I’m still your friend and I’ll always be your friend. Listen to me: I want you to forget that tonight ever happened. Forget that I ever came here. Forget that I ever asked for your help. Remember us as we were. Remember us as the best of friends. Do this for me and I shall do the same for you. By first light I’ll be gone. I promise. You’ll wake up and continue your life as normal. I assure you no one will ever know I was here.
Mikhail’s head dropped: he wept. Until tonight he’d believed he would’ve done anything for his friend. That was a lie. His loyalty, bravery and friendship had all been proved paper thin — they’d ripped at the first serious test.
When Anatoly had arrived unannounced that evening Mikhail had seemed understandably surprised. Anatoly had travelled to the village without warning. All the same he’d been welcomed warmly, offered food, drink, a bed. Only once his hosts had heard the news that he was making his way north to the Finnish border did they finally understand the reason for the sudden arrival. He’d never mentioned that he was wanted by the State Security Police, the MGB. He didn’t need to. They understood. He was a fugitive. As that fact became clear the welcome had evaporated. The punishment for aiding and abetting a fugitive was execution. He knew this but had hoped his friend would be prepared to accept the risk. He’d even hoped his friend might travel north with him. The MGB weren’t looking for two people and what’s more Mikhail had acquaintances in towns all the way to Leningrad including Tver and Gorky. True, it was an enormous amount to ask, but Anatoly had once saved Mikhail’s life and though he’d never considered it a debt that ever needed to be repaid, that was only because he’d never thought he’d need to call it in.
During their discussion it had become apparent that Mikhail wasn’t prepared to take that kind of risk. In fact, he wasn’t prepared to take any kind of risk. His wife had frequently interrupted their conversation asking to speak with her husband in private. At each interruption she’d glared at Anatoly with unmasked venom. Circumstances demanded prudence and caution as a part of everyday life. And there was no denying he’d brought danger to his friend’s family, a family he loved. Lowering his expectations sharply he had told Mikhail that he wanted nothing more than a night’s sleep in their barn. He’d be gone by tomorrow morning. He’d walk to the nearest railway station, the same way he’d arrived. In addition it’d been his idea to smash the lock to the barn. In the unlikely event that he was caught the family could claim ignorance and pretend there’d been an intruder. He’d believed that these precautions had reassured his hosts.
Unable to watch his friend cry, Anatoly leaned close.
— There’s nothing to feel guilty about. We’re all just trying to survive.
Mikhail stopped crying. He looked up, wiping his tears away. Realizing that this would be the last time they would ever see each other, the two friends hugged.
Mikhail pulled back.
— You’re a better man than me.
He stood up, leaving the barn and taking care to shut the door, kicking up some snow to wedge it in position. He turned his back on the wind and trudged towards the house. Killing Anatoly and reporting him as an intruder would have guaranteed the safety of his family. Now he’d have to take his chances. He’d have to pray. He’d never thought of himself as a coward, and during the war, when it had been his own life at stake, he’d never behaved as one. Some men had even called him brave. But having a family had made him fearful. He was able to imagine far worse things than his own death.
Reaching the house he took off his boots and coat and went to the bedroom. Opening the door he was startled by a figure at the window. His wife was awake, staring out at the barn. Hearing him enter she turned around. Her small frame gave no indication of her capacity to lift and carry and cut, to work twelve-hour days, to hold her family together. She didn’t care that Anatoly had once saved her husband’s life. She didn’t care about their history, their friendship. Loyalty and indebtedness were abstracts. Anatoly was a threat to their safety. That was real. She wanted him gone, as far away from her family as possible, and at this precise moment she hated him — this gentle decent friend whom she’d once loved and treasured as a guest — more than anyone else alive.
Mikhail kissed his wife. Her cheek was cold. He took her hand. She stared up at him, noticing that he’d been crying.
— What were you doing outside?
Mikhail understood her eagerness. She hoped that he’d done what was necessary. She hoped he’d put his family first and killed that man. That would be the right thing to do.
— He left the barn door open. Anyone could’ve seen it. I shut it.
He could feel his wife’s grip slacken, feeling her disappointment. She thought him weak. She was right. He had neither the strength to murder his friend nor the strength to help him. He tried to find some words of comfort.
— There’s nothing to worry about. No one knows he’s here.
Same Day
The table had been smashed, the bed turned upside down, the mattress shredded, pillows torn apart and floorboards ripped up, yet so far the search of Anatoly Brodsky’s apartment yielded no clue as to his whereabouts. Leo crouched down to examine the fireplace. Stacks of papers had been burnt. There were layers of fine ash where correspondence had been heaped and set alight. Using the muzzle of his gun he raked the remains hoping to find some fragment untouched by fire. The ashes fell apart — everything was burnt and black. The traitor had escaped. Leo was to blame. He’d given this man, a stranger, the benefit of the doubt. He’d presumed he was innocent; the kind of mistake a novice might make.
Better to let ten innocent men suffer than one spy escape.
He’d disregarded a fundamental principle of their work: the presumption of guilt.
Despite accepting responsibility, Leo couldn’t help but wonder that if he hadn’t been forced to waste the entire day dealing with the accidental death of that little boy, would Brodsky have escaped? Meeting relatives, stamping out hot-headed rumours — this wasn’t the work of a senior MGB officer. Instead of personally running a surveillance operation he’d agreed to sideline himself, untangling what amounted to little more than a personal affair. He should never have said yes. He’d become complacent about the threat posed by this man Brodsky. His first serious misjudgement since joining State Security. He was aware that few officers ever got an opportunity to make a second mistake.
He hadn’t thought much of the case: Brodsky was educated, with some competence in the English language, dealing with foreigners on a regular basis. This was grounds for vigilance but, as Leo had pointed out, the man was a respected vet in a city with very few trained vets. Foreign diplomats had to take their cats and dogs to someone. Furthermore this was a man who’d served in the Red Army as a field doctor. His background was impeccable. According to his military records he’d volunteered and despite not being technically qualified as a doctor, despite his expertise being injured animals, he’d worked in several field hospitals and subsequently received two commendations. The suspect must have saved hundreds of lives.
Major Kuzmin had quickly guessed the reason for his protégé’s reservations. During Leo’s own military career he’d been treated by field doctors for numerous injuries and clearly some kind of war camaraderie was holding him back. Kuzmin reminded Leo that sentimentality could blind a man to the truth. Those who appear the most trustworthy deserve the most suspicion. Leo recognized it as a play on Stalin’s well-known aphorism:
Trust but Check.
Stalin’s words had been interpreted as:
Check on Those we Trust.
Since those who weren’t trusted were scrutinized with the same vigour as those who were, it meant that there was at least a kind of equality.
The duty of an investigator was to scratch away at innocence until guilt was uncovered. If no guilt was uncovered then they hadn’t scratched deep enough. In the case of Brodsky the question wasn’t whether foreign diplomats met him because he was a vet but rather had this suspect become a vet in order that foreign diplomats could openly meet him. Why did he establish his practice within walking distance of the American Embassy? And why — shortly after he opened this practice — did several employees from the American Embassy obtain pets? Finally, why was it that the pets of foreign diplomats seemed to require more frequent attention than pets belonging to a typical citizen? Kuzmin had been the first to agree that there was a comical aspect to all of this and it was precisely this disarming quality which had made him uneasy. The innocence of the circumstances felt like a brilliant disguise. It felt like the MGB was being laughed at. There were few more serious crimes than that.
Having considered the case and noted his mentor’s observations, Leo made the decision that instead of arresting the suspect outright they would have him followed, reasoning that if this citizen was working as a spy then it was an opportunity to discover who he was working with and arrest them all in one swoop. Though he never said as much, he was uncomfortable making an arrest without more evidence. Of course that was a qualm he’d lived with throughout his professional life. He’d made many arrests knowing only the citizen’s name and address and the fact that someone mistrusted them. A suspect’s guilt became real as soon as they became a suspect. As for evidence, that would be acquired during their interrogation. But Leo was no longer a lackey who merely followed orders, and he’d decided to make use of his authority and do things a little differently. He was an investigator. He’d wanted to investigate. He had little doubt that he’d eventually arrest Anatoly Brodsky, he just wanted proof; some sign of guilt other than mere conjecture. In short, he wanted to feel OK about arresting him.
As part of the surveillance operation, Leo had taken the day shift, following the suspect during the hours of eight in the morning through to eight in the evening. For three days he’d observed nothing out of the ordinary. The suspect worked, ate lunch out and went home. In short he seemed a good citizen. Perhaps it had been this innocuous appearance which had dulled Leo’s senses. When, this morning, he’d been pulled aside by an irate Kuzmin, briefed on the Fyodor Andreev situation — the dead boy, the hysterical reaction — and ordered to fix it immediately, he didn’t protest. Instead of putting his foot down and pointing out that he had far more important things to do he’d acquiesced. With hindsight how ridiculous it all seemed. How frustrating that he was conversing with relatives, coaxing children, whilst this suspect, this traitor, was making his escape, making a mockery of Leo. The agent delegated to maintain watch had idiotically thought nothing of the fact that there hadn’t been a single customer at the veterinary practice all day. It wasn’t until dusk that the agent had become suspicious and entered, intending to pose as a customer. He’d found the premises empty. A back window had been prised open. The suspect could’ve escaped at any time, most probably in the morning, soon after he’d arrived.
Brodsky is gone.
When Leo had heard those words he’d felt sick: he’d called an emergency meeting with Major Kuzmin at his home address. Leo now had the proof of guilt he’d been looking for but he no longer had the suspect. To his surprise his mentor had seemed gratified. The traitor’s behaviour validated his theory: their business was mistrust. If an allegation contained only one per cent truth it was better to consider the entire allegation true than to dismiss it. Leo was instructed to catch this traitor at all costs. He was not to sleep, eat, rest, he was not to do anything until that man was in their custody, where — as Kuzmin had smugly pointed out — he should have been three days ago.
Leo rubbed his eyes. He could feel a knot in his stomach. At best he seemed naive, at worst incompetent. He’d underestimated an opponent and feeling a sudden, uncharacteristic burst of anger he considered kicking the upturned table. He decided against it. He had trained himself to keep his feelings locked out of view. A junior officer hurried into the room, probably keen to help, to prove his dedication. Leo waved him away, wanting to be alone. He took a moment to calm down, staring out of the window at the snow which had begun to fall over the city. He lit a cigarette, blowing smoke on a pane of glass. What had gone wrong? The suspect must have sighted the agents tailing him and planned his escape. If he was burning documents that meant he was keen to conceal material relating to his espionage or his current destination. Leo was sure that Brodsky had an escape plan, a way to get out of the country. He had to find some fragment of this plan.
The neighbours were a retired couple in their seventies who lived with their married son, his wife and their two children. A family of six in two rooms, not an unusual ratio. All six of them were sitting in their kitchen side by side with a junior officer standing behind them for the purpose of intimidation. Leo could see that they understood that they were all implicated in another man’s guilt. He could see their fear. Dismissing this observation as irrelevant — he’d been guilty of sentimentality once already — he walked up to the table.
— Anatoly Brodsky is a traitor. If you help him in any way even by saying nothing you will be treated as an accomplice. The pressure is on you to prove your loyalty to the State. There is no pressure on us to prove your guilt. That, right now, is taken for granted.
The elderly man, the grandfather, no doubt a savvy survivor, was quick to offer every piece of information he had. Copying Leo’s choice of words, he claimed the traitor had gone to work that morning a little earlier carrying the same case as usual, wearing the same coat and hat. Not wishing to seem uncooperative the grandfather offered opinions and suggestions as to where this traitor could be, all of which Leo sensed were nothing more than desperate guesswork. The grandfather concluded by saying how much everyone in their family disliked and mistrusted Brodsky as a neighbour and how the only person who liked him was Zina Morosovna, the lady living downstairs.
Zina Morosovna was aged somewhere in her fifties and trembling like a child, a fact she was trying unsuccessfully to hide by smoking. Leo found her standing beside a cheap reproduction of a famous Stalin portrait — smooth skin, wise eyes — hung prominently over her fireplace. Perhaps she thought it might protect her. Leo didn’t bother to introduce himself, or show his identity card, cutting straight to the chase in an effort to disorient her.
— Why is it you’re such good friends with Anatoly Brodsky when everyone else in this building disliked and mistrusted him?
Zina was caught off guard; her sense of discretion blunted by her indignation at this lie:
— Everyone in this building liked Anatoly. He was a good man.
— Brodsky is a spy. Yet you call him good? Treachery is a virtue?
Realizing her mistake too late, Zina began to qualify her comment.
— All I meant was that he was very considerate with the noise. He was polite.
These qualifications were stuttering and irrelevant. Leo ignored them. He took out a pad and wrote down her ill-chosen words in large visible letters.
HE WAS A GOOD MAN
He wrote clearly so that she could see exactly what he was writing: he was writing off the next fifteen years of her life. Those words were more than enough to convict her as a collaborator. She’d receive a lengthy sentence as a political prisoner. At her age she had little chance of surviving the Gulags. He didn’t need to say any of these threats aloud. They were common currency.
Zina retreated to the corner of the room, stubbed out her cigarette and immediately regretted it, fumbling for another.
— I don’t know where Anatoly has gone but I do know that he has no family. His wife was killed in the war. His son died of tuberculosis. He rarely had any visitors. As far as I could tell he had few friends…
She paused. Anatoly had been her friend. They’d spent many nights together, eating and drinking. There was a time when she’d even hoped that he might fall in love with her but he’d showed no interest. He’d never got over the loss of his wife. Caught up in her recollections she glanced at Leo. He wasn’t impressed.
— I want to know where he is. I don’t care about his dead wife or his dead son. His life story doesn’t interest me unless it’s relevant to where he is right now.
Her life was in the balance — there was only one way to survive. But could she betray a man she loved? To her surprise the decision took less deliberation then she would’ve expected.
— Anatoly kept himself to himself. However, he did receive and send letters. Occasionally he left them with me to post. The only regular correspondence was addressed to someone in the village of Kimov. It’s somewhere north of here, I think. He mentioned that he had a friend there. I don’t remember the name of the friend. That’s the truth. That’s all I know.
Her voice was choked with guilt. While no outward display of emotion could ever be taken at face value Leo’s instincts told him that she was betraying a confidence. He ripped out the incriminating page from his note-book and handed it to her. She accepted the sheet as payment for a betrayal. He saw contempt in her eyes. He didn’t let it bother him.
The name of a rural village to the north of Moscow was a tenuous lead. If Brodsky was working as a spy it was much more likely he was being sheltered by the people he was working for. The MGB had long been convinced there was in existence a network of safe houses under foreign control. The idea of a foreign-funded traitor falling back on a personal connection — a collective farmer — ran contrary to the notion that he was a professional spy. And yet Leo felt sure this was a lead he should pursue. He brushed the discrepancies aside: his job was to catch this man. This was the only clue he had. Equivocation had already cost him.
He hurried to the truck parked outside and began rereading the case file, searching for something which might connect with the village of Kimov. He was interrupted by the return of his second in command, Vasili Ilyich Nikitin. Aged thirty-five, five years older than Leo, Vasili had once been one of the MGB’s most promising officers. Ruthless, competitive, he harboured no loyalties to anyone except the MGB. Leo privately considered those loyalties to be less about patriotism and more about self-interest. In his early days as an investigator Vasili had signalled his dedication by denouncing his only brother for making anti-Stalinist remarks. Apparently the brother had made a joke at Stalin’s expense. He’d been drunk at the time, celebrating his birthday. Vasili had written up the report and the brother had been given a twenty-year labour sentence. That arrest had worked in Vasili’s favour until the brother escaped three years later, killing several guards and the camp doctor in the process. He was never caught, and the embarrassment of this incident hung around Vasili’s neck. If he hadn’t strenuously helped in the search for the fugitive his career might not have survived. Instead it survived in a much weakened state. With no more brothers left to denounce, Leo knew his deputy was on the lookout for some other way of getting back in favour.
Having just finished his search of the veterinary practice, Vasili was apparently pleased with himself. He handed Leo a crumpled letter which, he explained, he’d found caught behind the traitor’s writing desk. All other correspondence had been burnt — as it had been in the apartment — yet in his hurry the suspect had missed this one. Leo read it. The letter was from a friend telling Anatoly he was welcome to stay with him at any time. The address was partially smudged but the name of the city was clear: Kiev. Leo folded the letter and handed it back to his deputy.
— This was written by Brodsky. Not a friend. He wanted us to find it. He’s not heading to Kiev.
The letter had been hastily written. The handwriting was inconsistent, poorly disguised. The content was risible and seemed solely intended to convince the reader that the writer was a friend to whom Brodsky could turn in an hour of need. The address was deliberately smudged to prevent a quick identification of the genuine occupant and so proof of the letter’s forgery. The location of the letter — dropped behind the desk — seemed staged.
Vasili protested the letter’s authenticity.
— It would be negligent not to fully investigate the Kiev lead.
Though Leo had no doubts about the letter being a forgery he wondered if it wouldn’t be shrewd to send Vasili to Kiev as a precautionary measure, to protect against any possible allegation that he’d ignored evidence. He dismissed the idea: it didn’t matter how he conducted the investigation, if he failed to find the suspect his career was over.
He returned his attention to the file. According to the records, Brodsky was friends with a man called Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev, who had been discharged from the Red Army suffering chronic frostbite. Near death, several of his toes had been amputated: he’d been nursed back to health and given a discharge from military service. Brodsky had performed the operation. Leo’s finger ran along the document, searching for a current address.
Kimov.
Leo turned to his men, catching Vasili’s sour expression.
— We’re leaving.
15 February
The roads out of Moscow were covered with icy mulch and despite the truck’s tyres being fitted with snow chains their speed had rarely risen above twenty-five kilometres per hour. Wind and snow gusted around them with such ferocity it seemed as if they had some personal stake in Leo not reaching his destination. The windscreen wipers, attached to the roof of the front cabin struggled to keep even the smallest patch of window clear. With visibility less than ten metres the truck pushed forward. It was nothing less than desperation on Leo’s part to attempt a journey in these conditions.
Hunched forward with maps spread across his lap, Leo was seated beside Vasili and their driver. All three of them were dressed as though they were outside — coats, gloves, hats. The steel cabin with its steel roof and steel floor was heated only by the residual warmth from the rattling engine. But at least the cabin offered some protection from the weather. In the back his nine heavily armed agents travelled in no such luxury. The ZiS-151 trucks had tarpaulin roofs which cold air and even snow whipped through. Since temperatures could fall to minus thirty, all rear compartments of the ZiS-151s were fitted with wood-burning stoves bolted to the floor. These pot-bellied contraptions were able to warm only those within touching distance of them, forcing the men to huddle and regularly rotate position. Leo had sat there many times himself: after every ten minutes the two nearest the stove reluctantly moved away from the heat, relegated to the coldest position at the furthest ends of the benches while the rest of the team shuffled up.
For the first time in his career Leo could sense dissent among his team. The reason wasn’t the discomfort or the lack of sleep. His men were used to tough conditions. No, there was something else. Perhaps it was the fact that the mission could have been avoided. Perhaps they had no confidence in the Kimov lead. Yet he’d asked his men for their confidence before and he’d been given it. Tonight he felt hostility, resistance. Aside from Vasili he wasn’t used to it. He pushed the thoughts aside. Right now his popularity was the least of his concerns.
If his theory proved correct, if the suspect was in Kimov, then Leo thought it likely that he’d be on the move at first light, whether on his own or aided by his friend. Leo was taking a chance betting that they’d get to the village in time. He’d decided against deploying the local militia stationed at Zagorsk, the nearest major town, since they were in his opinion amateurish, ill-disciplined and undertrained. Even the local MGB divisions weren’t to be trusted with such an operation. Already alert to the fact he was a wanted man, Brodsky was unlikely to surrender. He might fight to the death. He needed to be taken alive. His confession was of paramount importance. Furthermore his escape had embarrassed Leo personally and he was determined to make amends, determined that he should be the one to make the arrest. This wasn’t merely a matter of pride. Nor was it merely that his career depended upon success. The consequences ran deeper than that. Failure in such a high-profile espionage case might result in claims that Leo had deliberately sabotaged the investigation. Failure to recapture the suspect would further implicate him. His loyalty would be called into question.
Check on Those we Trust.
No one was exempt from that rule, not even those who enforced it.
If Brodsky wasn’t in Kimov, if Leo was wrong, then Vasili would be the first in line with a testimonial detailing how his superior officer disregarded the promising Kiev lead. Sensing his weakness, others in the directorate, like animals circling a wounded prey, would almost certainly come forward to denounce him as a poor leader while Vasili positioned himself as Leo’s logical successor. In the hierarchies of the State Security, fortunes could change overnight. For both men much depended upon the location of this traitor.
Leo glanced across at his deputy, a man both handsome and repulsive in equal measure — as if his good looks were plastered over a rotten centre, a hero’s face with a henchman’s heart. There were just the tiniest visible fractures in his attractive facade, appearing at the corners of his mouth, a slight sneer that, if you knew how to interpret it, hinted at the dark thoughts lying beneath his good looks. Perhaps sensing that he was the subject of attention, Vasili turned and smiled a thin, ambiguous smile. Something pleased him. Leo knew immediately that something must be wrong.
He checked the map. With a population of less than a thousand, Kimov was a speck of dust on the Soviet canvas. He’d warned the driver not to expect any road signs. Even at fifteen kilometres per hour this village would appear and disappear in the time it would take to change gear. Yet as Leo ran his finger over the road markings he began to suspect that they’d missed their turning. They were still travelling north when they should be travelling west. Since it was nearly impossible to take any kind of bearings based upon the surrounding landscape he calculated where they were in terms of kilometres. They were too far north. The driver had overshot the mark.
— Turn around!
Leo noticed that neither the driver nor Vasili seemed surprised by the request. The driver mumbled:
— But we didn’t see the exit.
— We’ve missed it. Stop the truck.
The driver gently slowed, pumping the brake in short bursts in order to avoid sliding on the ice. The truck came to a gradual stop, Leo jumped out and in blizzard conditions began to direct the driver through an awkward U-turn, the ZiS-151 being almost as wide as the road. The turn was halfway complete, with the truck at right angles to the road, when the driver seemed to ignore Leo’s instructions, reversing too far and too fast. Leo ran forward banging on the door but it was too late. One of the back tyres ran off the road. It was spinning uselessly in a snow drift. Leo’s anger was tempered by his growing suspicions regarding this driver, who seemed to exhibit an improbable level of incompetence. Vasili had organized the truck, the driver. Leo opened the cabin door, shouting over the wind:
— Get out!
The driver stepped out. By now the officers in the back had also jumped out to survey the situation. They glared at Leo with disapproval. Was this annoyance at the delay, the mission itself, irritation with his leadership? He couldn’t understand it. He ordered one of the other men to take the wheel whilst the entire team, including Vasili, pushed the truck out of the snow. The tyre spun, spraying dirty slush up their uniforms. Finally the snow chains caught the road and the truck lurched forward. Leo sent the disgraced driver to sit in the back. That kind of mistake was more than enough to warrant a written report and a Gulag sentence. Vasili must have guaranteed the driver immunity, a guarantee that would only hold up if Leo failed. Leo wondered how many other members of his team had more invested in his failure than his success. Feeling alone, isolated within his own unit, he took the wheel. He’d drive. He’d navigate. He’d get them there. He could trust no one. Vasili got in beside him, wisely opting to say nothing. Leo put the truck in gear.
By the time they were on the correct road, travelling west, on an approach to Kimov the storm had passed. A weak winter sun began to rise. Leo was exhausted. Driving through the snow had drained him. His arms and shoulders were stiff, his eyelids heavy. They were passing through the rural heartlands — fields, forests. Turning into a gentle valley he saw the village: a cluster of wooden farmhouses, some on the road, some set back, all with square bases and high triangular roofs, a vista that hadn’t changed for a hundred years. This was old Russia: communities built around bucket wells and ancient myths, where the health of cattle was decided by the grace of the Dvorovoi, the yard spirit, where parents told their children that if they misbehaved spirits would steal them and turn them into bark. The parents had been told the stories as children and they’d never grown out of them, spending months stitching clothes only to give them away as offerings to forest nymphs, the Rusalki, who were believed to swing from the trees and could, if they so chose, tickle a man to death. Leo had grown up in the city and these rural superstitions meant nothing to him, baffled as to how their country’s ideological revolution had done little to dislodge this primitive folklore.
Leo stopped the truck at the first farmhouse. From his jacket pocket he took out a glass vial filled with small, unevenly shaped dirty white crystals — pure methamphetamine — a narcotic much favoured by the Nazis. He’d been introduced to it while fighting on the Eastern Front as his country’s army had pushed the invaders back, absorbing prisoners of war and also some of their habits. There had been operations where Leo couldn’t afford to rest. This was one of them. Now prescribed to him by the MGB doctors, he’d used it repeatedly since the war, whenever a mission needed to run all night. Its usefulness couldn’t be underestimated. But its price was a total crash about twenty-four hours later: complete exhaustion which could only be offset by taking more or sleeping for twelve hours. Side effects had begun to manifest themselves. He’d lost weight; the definition of his face had tightened. His powers of recall had faded, precise details and names eluded him, previous cases and arrests had become muddled in his memory and he now had to write notes to himself. It was impossible to judge whether or not he’d become more paranoid as a result of the drugs since paranoia was an essential asset, a virtue which should be trained and cultivated. If it had been amplified by the methamphetamines, that was all to the good.
He tapped a small amount onto his palm, then a little more, struggling to remember the correct dosage. Better too much than too little. Satisfied, he washed it down with the contents of a hip flask. The vodka stung his throat, failing to hide the acrid chemical taste, which made him want to gag. He waited for the sensation to pass, surveying his surroundings. Fresh snow covered everything. Leo was pleased. Outside Kimov itself there were few places to hide. A person would be visible for kilometres, their tracks through the snow easy to follow.
He had no idea which of these farms belonged to Mikhail Zinoviev. Since a military truck parked in the road took away any element of surprise Leo jumped out, drew his gun and moved towards the nearest house. Though the amphetamines hadn’t yet taken hold he already felt more awake, sharpened as his brain prepared itself for the inevitable narcotic surge. He approached the porch, checking his weapon.
Before he’d even knocked on the door an elderly woman with leathery skin appeared. She was wearing a blue-patterned dress with white sleeves, and an embroidered shawl wrapped around her head. She didn’t care for Leo, or his gun, his uniform, or his military truck. She was fearless and made no attempt to hide the lines of disdain carved into her brow.
— I’m looking for Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev. Is this his farmhouse? Where is he?
As though Leo were speaking a foreign language she cocked her head to one side and made no response. It was the second time in two days that an elderly woman had squared up to him, held him in open contempt. There was something about these women which made them untouchable; his authority meant nothing to them. Fortunately the stalemate was broken when the woman’s son, a man with a strong build and nervous stammer, hurried out of the house.
— Excuse her. She’s old. What can I do for you?
Once again sons made excuses for their mothers.
— Mikhail Sviatoslavich. Where is he? Which is his farm?
Realizing that Leo wasn’t interested in arresting them, that he and his family were safe for another day, the son was greatly relieved. He gladly pointed out his friend’s farm.
Leo returned to the truck. His men had assembled. He split the team into three groups. They’d advance on the house from different sides, one each from the front and back while the third team would approach and surround the barn. Each man was armed with a 9mm Stechkin APS automatic pistol devised specially for use by the MGB. In addition one man in each group carried an AK-47. They were ready for a pitched battle, if it came to that.
— We take the traitor alive. We need his confession. If you’re in any doubt, any doubt at all, you don’t fire.
Leo repeated this command with particular emphasis to the group headed by Vasili. Killing Anatoly Brodsky would be a punishable offence. Their own safety was secondary to the life of the suspect. In response Vasili took command of his group’s AK-47.
— Just to be sure.
In an attempt to limit Vasili’s potential to sabotage this operation Leo gave them the least important area to secure.
— Your group will search the barn.
Vasili moved off. Leo grabbed his arm.
— We take him alive.
Halfway towards the house the men divided into the three groups, breaking off in different directions. Neighbours stole glances from their windows then disappeared inside. Thirty paces from the door Leo paused, allowing the other two groups to get in position. Vasili’s team encircled the barn while the third group arrived at the back of the house, all of them waiting for Leo’s signal. There was no sign of life outside. A whisper of smoke rose from the chimney. Ragged cloth hung in front of the small windows. It was impossible to see into the rooms. Except for the click of AK-47 safety catches there was silence. Suddenly a young girl stepped out from a small rectangular building, the pit toilet — set back from the main house. She was humming; the sound carried across the snow. The three officers nearest Leo swung round, training their guns on her. The little girl froze, terrified. Leo raised his hands.
— Don’t shoot!
He held his breath, hoping not to hear the report of machine-gun fire. No one moved. And then the girl broke into a run, sprinting towards the house as fast as she could, screaming for her mother.
Leo felt the first amphetamine kick — his fatigue evaporated. He leapt forward, his men followed, moving in on the house like a noose tightening around a neck. The little girl threw open the front door, scampered inside. Leo was only seconds behind, hitting the front door with his shoulder, raising his gun and barging into the house. He found himself inside a small, warm kitchen surrounded by the smell of breakfast. There were two young girls — the elder was maybe ten years old and the younger four years old — standing by a small fire. Their mother, a stout, tough looking woman who looked like she could swallow bullets and spit them back out, was in front of them, shielding them with one hand on each of their chests. A man in his forties entered from the back room. Leo turned to him.
— Mikhail Sviatoslavich?
— Yes?
— My name is Leo Stepanovich Demidov, officer of the MGB. Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky is a spy. He’s wanted for questioning. Tell me where he is.
— Anatoly?
— Your friend. Where is he? And don’t lie.
— Anatoly lives in Moscow. He works as a vet. I haven’t seen him for years.
— If you tell me where he is I will forget that he ever came here. You and your family will be safe.
Mikhail’s wife directed her husband a glance: she was tempted by the offer. Leo felt an overwhelming sense of relief. He’d been right. The traitor was here. Without waiting for an answer, Leo gestured for his men to begin searching the house.
Vasili entered the barn, gun raised, finger against the trigger. He stepped towards the pile of straw, the only place to hide, high enough to conceal a man. He fired several short bursts. Wisps of straw flew up. Smoke rose from the barrel of his gun. The cows behind him snorted, shuffled away, kicking the ground. But no blood seeped out. There was no one here, they were wasting their time. He went outside, slung the machine gun over his shoulder and lit a cigarette.
Alarmed by the sound of gunfire, Leo ran out of the house. Vasili called to him:
— There’s no one here.
Buzzing with narcotic energy Leo hurried towards the barn, his jaw clamped tight.
Annoyed at being ignored, Vasili tossed the cigarette into snow, watching as it melted down to the ground.
— Unless he can disguise himself as a cow he’s not in there. Maybe you should shoot them just in case.
Vasili glanced around for laughter and the men obliged. He wasn’t deluded: he recognized that none of them thought he was funny. Far better than that, their laughter was an indication that the balance of power had begun to shift. Their allegiance to Leo was weakening. Maybe it was the exhausting journey. Maybe it had been Leo’s decision to let Brodsky remain free when he should’ve been arrested. But Vasili wondered if it had something to do with Fyodor and the death of his little boy. Leo had been sent to clear that matter up. Many of the men here were Fyodor’s friends. If there was resentment it could be mined, manipulated.
Leo bent down, examining the tracks in the snow. There were fresh boot prints; some belonged to his officers but underneath those were a set leading out from the barn and heading to the fields. He stood up and entered the barn. Vasili called out after him:
— I’ve searched there already!
Ignoring him, Leo touched the smashed lock on the door: he saw the grain sacks spread on the ground and returned outside, staring in the direction of the fields.
— I want three men to follow me, the fastest three. Vasili, you’ll remain here. Continue searching the house.
He took off his heavy winter jacket. Without meaning it as an intentional snub he gave it to his deputy. Unimpeded, able to run, he began following the tracks towards the fields.
The three agents who’d been ordered to follow didn’t bother removing their coats. Their superior officer was asking them to run through the snow without their jackets when he couldn’t even bother to examine the body of their colleague’s dead son. A boy’s death had been dismissed as though it were a trifle. The men certainly weren’t going to catch pneumonia, not in blind obedience to a man whose authority might be coming to an end, a man who had no interest in looking after them. All the same, Leo was still their superior officer, for the moment at least, and after exchanging looks with Vasili the three men began sluggishly jogging in an imitation of obedience, following a man who was already several hundred metres ahead of them.
Leo was picking up speed. The amphetamines focused him: nothing else existed except the tracks in the snow, the rhythm of his steps. He was incapable of stopping or slowing, incapable of failure, incapable of feeling the cold. Even though he guessed the suspect had at least an hour’s head start, that fact didn’t concern him. The man had no idea he was being followed, he’d almost certainly be walking.
Up ahead was the crest of a gentle hill and Leo hoped that from the top he’d be able to see the suspect. Reaching the top he paused, surveying the landscape around him. There were snow-covered fields in every direction. Some distance ahead there was the edge of a dense forest but before that, a kilometre away, downhill, there was a man shuffling through the snow. This was no farmer or labourer. It was the traitor. Leo was sure of it. He was making his way north on course towards the forest. If he managed to reach the trees he’d be able to hide. Leo had no dogs to track him. He checked over his shoulder — his three agents were lagging. Some tie between him and them had snapped. They couldn’t be counted on. He’d have to catch the traitor himself.
As though some sixth sense had alerted him, Anatoly stopped walking and turned around. There, running down the small hill towards him, was a man. There could be no doubt that this was an officer of the State. Anatoly had been certain that all evidence connecting him to this remote village had been destroyed. For this reason he stood for a moment, doing nothing at all, mesmerized by the sight of his pursuer. He’d been found. He felt his stomach heave, his face flush red and then, realizing this man meant death, he spun around and began running towards the woods. His first few steps were clumsy and panicked, staggering sideways into the deeper snow drifts. He quickly understood that his coat was a hindrance. He pulled it off, dropping it on the ground, running for his life.
Anatoly no longer made the mistake of glancing behind him. He was concentrating on the woods ahead. At this rate he was going to reach them before his pursuer could catch up. The woods offered a chance to disappear, to hide. And if it came to a fight he’d have a better chance in there, where there were branches and stones, than unarmed and out in the open.
Leo increased his speed, pushing himself harder, sprinting as though on a running track. Some part of his mind remembered that the terrain was treacherous and running at this speed precarious. But the amphetamines made him believe anything was possible — he could leap this distance between them.
Suddenly Leo lost his footing, sliding to the side before tumbling face down into a snow drift. Dazed, buried in snow, he rolled onto his back, wondering if he was hurt whilst staring up at the pale-blue sky. He felt no pain. He got up, brushing the snow off his face and hands, regarding with cool detachment the cuts on his hands. He looked for the figure of Brodsky, expecting to see him disappearing into the edge of the forest. But to his surprise the suspect had also stopped running. He was standing still. Confused, Leo hurried forward. He didn’t understand — just as escape seemed possible this man seemed to be doing nothing at all. He was staring at the ground in front of him. Barely a hundred metres now separated them. Leo drew his gun, slowing to a walk. He took aim, knowing full well he couldn’t risk a shot from this range. His heart was pounding, two thumps for each footstep. Another surge of methamphetamine energy: the roof of his mouth went dry. His fingers trembled with an excess of energy, sweat seeped down his back. There were barely fifty paces between them. Brodsky turned around. He wasn’t armed. He had nothing in his hands; it was as though he’d suddenly and inexplicably given up. Leo continued forward, closer and closer. Finally he could see what had stopped Brodsky. There was an ice-covered river some twenty metres wide in between him and the woods. It hadn’t been visible from the hill, hidden under a blanket of heavy snow which had settled across the frozen surface. Leo called out:
— It’s over!
Anatoly considered this remark, turned back towards the forest and stepped out onto the ice. His footsteps were unsteady, sliding across the smooth surface. The ice sheet creaked under his weight, barely holding him. He didn’t slow down. Step after step after step, the ice was beginning to crack — black, crooked lines formed on the surface, criss-crossing and fanning out from underneath his feet. The faster he moved, the faster the lines appeared, multiplying in all directions. Icy water seeped up through the joints. He pressed forward: he was at the middle of the river, another ten metres to go to the other side. He looked down at dark, freezing water flowing beneath him.
Leo reached the edge of the riverbank, holstered his gun, stretched out his hand.
— The ice won’t hold. You won’t reach the woods.
Brodsky stopped and turned.
— I’m not trying to reach the woods.
He raised his right leg and with a sudden movement brought his boot crashing down, splintering the surface and puncturing through to the river underneath. Water rushed up, the ice broke apart and he fell through.
Completely numb, in shock, he allowed himself to sink: looking up at the sunlight. Then, feeling the pull upwards, he kicked himself downstream away from the break in the ice. He had no intention of surfacing. He’d disappear into this dark water. His lungs were beginning to sting and already he could feel his body fighting his decision to die. He kicked himself further downstream swimming as far away from the light as possible, away from any chance of survival. Finally his natural buoyancy lifted him to the surface; instead of air his face rose up against a solid sheet of ice. The slow-moving current dragged him further downstream.
The traitor wasn’t going to surface, no doubt he was swimming away from the air hole in an attempt to kill himself and protect his accomplices. Leo hurried down the riverbank, estimating where under the ice he might be. He unfastened his heavy leather belt and gun, dropped them on the ground and stepped out onto the frozen river, his boots slipping across the surface. Almost immediately the ice began to strain. He kept moving, trying to keep his footsteps light, but the ice was splintering and he could feel it sinking under his weight. Reaching the middle of the river, he crouched down, frantically brushing away the snow. But the suspect was nowhere to be seen — just dark water all around. Leo moved further downstream but fracture lines were chasing his every step, surrounding him from all sides. Water began to swell, the cracks came together. He looked up to the sky, filling his lungs, bracing himself as he heard a snap.
The ice collapsed.
Although he didn’t feel the full extent of the cold, doped up on amphetamines, he knew he had to move fast. At this temperature he had a matter of seconds. He spun around. There were shafts of light where the ice had broken in two places but beyond that the water was dark, shielded from the sun by a dense canopy of snow. He pushed away from the bottom, heading downstream. Unable to see anything he swam further and further, blindly groping right and left. His body was screaming for air. In response he increased his speed, kicking harder, pulling himself faster through the water. Soon he’d have no choice but to turn back or die. Realizing he wouldn’t get a second chance, that returning empty-handed might mean execution, he took another stroke downstream.
His hand brushed something: material, cloth, a trouser leg. It was Brodsky, lank against the ice. But as though his touch brought him back to life he started struggling. Leo swam underneath him, gripped him around the neck. The pain inside Leo’s chest was sharp. He had to get back to the surface. With one arm around the suspect’s neck he tried punching the ice above him but his blows glanced off the smooth hard surface.
Brodsky stopped moving. Concentrating, overriding every impulse in his body, he opened his mouth, filling his lungs with freezing water, welcoming death.
Leo focused on the shafts of sunlight upstream. He kicked hard, propelling them both towards the light. His prisoner was motionless, unconscious. Light-headed, Leo couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He took another kick — felt sunlight across his face — pushed upwards. The two men broke the water’s surface.
Leo gasped and gasped again. But Brodsky wasn’t breathing. Leo pulled him towards the riverbank, smashing his way through the fractured chunks of ice. His feet touched the riverbed. He pulled himself up onto the bank, dragging his prisoner with him. Their skin was pale blue. Leo couldn’t stop shaking. In contrast the suspect remained perfectly still. Leo opened the man’s mouth, tipping the water out, blowing air into his lungs. He pushed down on his chest, blew air into his lungs, he pushed down on his chest, blew air into his lungs.
— Come on!
Brodsky spluttered back into consciousness, doubling over and vomiting up the icy water that filled his stomach. Leo didn’t have time to feel relief. They had minutes before they’d die from hypothermia. He stood up. He could see his three officers in the near distance.
The men had spotted Leo disappearing into the river and realized that their superior officer had been right all along. In a split second the balance of power shifted away from Vasili and back to Leo. Their disgruntled feelings towards his handling of Fyodor now meant nothing. The only reason they’d felt safe enough to let their emotions poke through had been their expectation that this operation would fail and Leo would be relieved of his power. That was not the case: his position would be stronger than ever. They were running as fast as they could; their lives depended on it.
Leo dropped down to the prisoner’s side. Brodsky’s eyes were closing — he was drifting back into unconsciousness. Leo hit him across the face. It was essential he remain awake. He hit him again. The suspect opened his eyes but almost immediately began to close them again. Leo hit him again and again and again. They were running out of time. He stood up, calling to his men.
— Hurry!
His voice was becoming softer, his energy sapping as finally the cold caught up with him and his chemical invincibility began to melt away. The drugs had passed their peak. An extraordinary fatigue was repossessing his body. His officers arrived.
— Take off your jackets. Get a fire started.
All three took their jackets off, wrapping one around Leo and the other two around Brodsky. That wasn’t going to be enough. They needed a fire. The three officers looked for wood. There was a picket fence some distance away and two of the agents ran towards it while the third agent began ripping the sleeve of his coarse cotton shirt into strips. Leo remained focused on his prisoner, hitting him to keep him awake. But Leo was also feeling sleepy. He wanted to rest. He wanted to close his eyes.
— Hurry!
Though he’d meant to shout, his voice was barely audible.
The two officers returned with planks ripped from the fence. They cleared an area of ground, kicking aside the snow and laying timbers across the frozen soil. Upon these timbers they positioned the strips of cotton. Building around these strips they balanced thin wooden shards, creating a pyramid formation. One of the officers took out his lighter, tipping the fluid over the cotton. The flint sparked, the cotton caught light, began to burn. The wood smouldered. But it was damp and refused to catch. Smoke spiralled upwards. Leo couldn’t feel any heat. The wood was taking too long to dry out. He ripped the lining from the inside of the jacket, adding this to the fire. If it went out they’d both die.
Between them they only had one lighter remaining. The officer carefully pulled the components apart and tipped the last of the lighter fuel over the struggling fire. The flames grew, aided by a crumpled cigarette carton and shredded cigarette papers. All the officers were on their knees, stoking the fire. The timbers began to burn.
Anatoly opened his eyes, staring at the flames in front of him. The wood was crackling in the heat. Despite his desire to die the warmth felt wonderful on his skin. As the flames grew and the embers glowed red, he realized with muddled emotions that he was going to survive.
Leo sat, his gaze concentrated on the fire’s centre. Steam rose from his clothes. Two of the officers, keen to recover his approval, carried on collecting firewood. The third officer stood guard. Once there was no danger of the fire burning out, Leo ordered one of the men to return to the house and make preparations for their return to Moscow. Addressing his prisoner, Leo asked:
— Are you well enough to walk?
— I used to go fishing with my son. At night we’d build fires just like this and sit around them. He didn’t much like to fish but I think he enjoyed the fires. Had he not died he would’ve been roughly the same age as you are now.
Leo said nothing. The prisoner added:
— If it’s all right with you, I’d like to stay a little longer.
Leo added some more wood to the fire. They could wait a little longer.
On the walk back none of the men spoke. The distance Leo had covered in less than thirty minutes took them almost two hours to retrace. Each footstep seemed heavier and heavier as the methamphetamines disappeared from his system. Only the fact of his success sustained him now. He’d return to Moscow having proved himself, having recovered his status. He’d stood on the brink of failure and stepped back from it.
Nearing the farmhouse Anatoly began to wonder how they’d found him. He realized that he must have mentioned his friendship with Mikhail to Zina. She’d betrayed him. But he felt no anger towards her. She was only trying to survive. No one could begrudge her that. Anyway, it was irrelevant. All that mattered now was convincing his captors that Mikhail was innocent of any collaboration. He turned to his captor.
— When I arrived last night the family told me to leave. They wanted nothing to do with me. They threatened to call the authorities. That’s why I was forced to break into their barn. They thought I’d gone. The family has done nothing wrong. They’re good people, hard-working people.
Leo tried to imagine what had really happened last night. The traitor had sought his friend’s help but that help had not been forthcoming. It was not much of an escape plan. It was certainly not the escape plan of a competent spy.
— I have no interest in your friends.
They reached the perimeter of the farm. Just ahead of them, lined up on their knees outside the entrance to the barn, were Mikhail Zinoviev, his wife and their two young daughters. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They were shivering, freezing cold in the snow. It was obvious they’d been positioned like this for some time. Mikhail’s face was battered. There was blood dripping from his smashed nose; his jaw hung at an awkward angle. It was broken. The officers were in a loose, uncertain ring around them. Vasili stood directly behind the family. Leo stopped walking, about to speak, when Vasili uncrossed his arms, revealing his gun. He lined up the muzzle and fired a shot into the back of Zinoviev’s head. The sound rang out. The man’s body fell forward into the snow. His wife and daughters remained motionless, staring at the body before them.
Only Brodsky reacted, making a noise, an inhuman noise — no words but grief and anger mixed together. Vasili took a step to the side and positioned his gun behind the wife’s head. Leo raised his hand.
— Lower your gun! That’s an order.
— These people are traitors. We need to make an example.
Vasili pulled the trigger, his hand recoiled, a second shot rang out and the woman’s body slumped into the snow beside that of her husband. Brodsky tried to break free but the two officers escorting him kicked him to his knees. Vasili took another sidestep, positioning the gun behind the head of the elder daughter. Her nose was red with the cold. Her body was shaking slightly. She was staring at her mother’s body. She would die in the snow beside her parents. Leo drew his gun, pointing it at his deputy.
— Lower your gun.
Suddenly all his tiredness disappeared, not as the result of some narcotic. Outrage and adrenaline swept through him. His hand was steady. He closed one eye and took careful aim. At this range he wouldn’t miss. If he fired now the girl would survive. Both girls would survive — no one would be murdered. Without thinking about it the word had sprung into his head:
Murdered.
He cocked his gun.
Vasili had been wrong about Kiev. He’d been duped by Brodsky’s letter. He’d assured the other men they were wasting their time going to Kimov. He’d hinted that tonight’s failure would result in him becoming the new boss. These embarrassing mistakes would all be in Leo’s report. Right now Vasili could sense the other officers watching him. His status had been struck a humiliating blow. Part of him wanted to see if Leo had the nerve to kill him. The repercussions would be severe. Yet he was no fool. He knew in his heart that he was a coward just as surely as he knew that Leo was not. Vasili lowered his gun. Pretending to be satisfied, he gestured to the two children.
— The girls have learned a valuable lesson. Maybe they’ll grow up to be better citizens than their parents.
Leo moved towards his deputy, passing the two dead bodies, leaving a boot print in the bloody snow. In a swift arc he swung his gun, cracking the edge of his weapon against the side of Vasili’s head. Vasili fell back, clutching his temple. There was a trickle of blood where the skin had broken. But before he could stand up straight he felt the barrel of Leo’s gun pressing against his temple. Except for the two girls, who were staring down, waiting to die, everyone watched.
Very slowly, Vasili tilted his head and looked up, his jaw quivering. He was afraid of death; this man to whom the death of others was so casual. Leo’s finger touched the trigger. But he couldn’t do it. Not in cold blood. He would not be this man’s executioner. Let the State punish him. Trust in the State. He holstered his gun.
— You’ll remain here and wait for the militia. You’ll explain what has happened and assist them. You can make your own way back to Moscow.
Leo helped the two girls to their feet and walked them to the house.
Three agents were needed to carry Anatoly Brodsky to the back of the truck. His body was slack as though life had been sucked out of it. He was muttering incomprehensibly, insane with grief and oblivious as the other officers told him to shut up. They didn’t want to listen to his crying.
Inside the house the two young girls said nothing, still unable to comprehend that the bodies lying outside in the snow were their parents. At any moment they expected their father to make them breakfast or their mother to return from the fields. Nothing felt real. Their parents were their entire world. How could the world exist without them?
Leo asked if they had any other family. Neither girl said a word. He told the elder girl to pack — they were coming to Moscow. Neither of them moved. He went to the bedroom and began to pack for them, looking for their things, their clothes. His hands began to shake. He stopped, sat on the bed and looked down at his boot. He clumped his heels together and stared at the thin, compact ridges of blood-soaked snow that fell to the floor.
Vasili watched from the roadside, smoking his last cigarette, as the truck pulled away. He glimpsed the two girls sitting in the front beside Leo where he should’ve been. The truck turned and disappeared down the road. He looked around. There were faces at the windows of nearby farms. This time they didn’t shy away. He was glad he still had his machine gun. He walked back to the house glancing at the bodies lying in the snow. He entered the kitchen, warmed up some water and brewed some tea. It was strong and he sweetened it with sugar. The family had a small pot of sugar, probably meant to last a month. He poured almost all of it into his glass, creating a sickly treat. He sipped it and suddenly felt tired. He took off his boots and jacket, went to the bedroom, pulled back the covers and lay down. He wished it were possible to choose his dreams. He’d choose to dream of revenge.
16 February
Even though it had been his place of work for the past five years, Leo had never felt comfortable in the Lubyanka, the headquarters of the MGB. Casual conversations were rare. Reactions were guarded. All this was hardly surprising considering the nature of their occupation but to his mind there was something about the building itself which made people uneasy, as though fear had been factored into the design. He accepted his theory was nonsense in so far as he knew nothing of the architect’s intention. The building predated the Revolution, existing as nothing more than an insurance office before being taken over by the Bolshevik secret security force. Yet he found it difficult to believe they’d by chance chosen a building whose proportions were so unsettling: neither tall nor squat, wide nor narrow, it was somewhere awkwardly in between. Its facade created the impression of watchfulness: rows and rows of windows crammed together, stacked up and up, rising to a clock at the top which stared out over the city as though it were a single beady eye. An invisible borderline existed around the building. Passers-by steered clear of this imaginary perimeter as if fearful they were going to be pulled in. Crossing that line meant you were either staff or condemned. There was no chance you could be found innocent inside these walls. It was an assembly line of guilt. Perhaps the Lubyanka hadn’t been constructed with fear in mind but fear had taken over all the same, fear had made this former insurance office its own, its home.
Leo handed over his identity card; a card which meant not only that he could enter the building but also that he could leave. The card-less men and women led through these doors were often never seen again. The system might carry them into the Gulags or to a building just behind this one, on Varsonofyevsky Lane, another State Security compound fitted with sloping floors, logpanelled walls to absorb bullets and hoses to wash away the rivulets of blood. Leo didn’t know the precise execution capacity but the numbers were high, up to several hundred a day. At those levels practical considerations, such as how easily and quickly human remains could be cleaned away, became an issue.
Entering the main corridor, Leo wondered how it would feel to be led down to the basements with no leave to appeal and no one to call for help. The judicial system could be bypassed entirely. Leo had heard of prisoners who lay abandoned for weeks and doctors who served no other purpose than the study of pain. He taught himself to accept that these things existed not just for their own sake. They existed for a reason, a greater good. They existed to terrify. Terror was necessary. Terror protected the Revolution. Without it, Lenin would’ve fallen. Without it, Stalin would’ve fallen. Why else would rumours concerning this building be deliberately spread by MGB operatives, muttered on the metro or on tramcars as strategically as if they were releasing a virus into the population? Fear was cultivated. Fear was part of his job. And for this level of fear to be sustained it needed a constant supply of people fed to it.
Of course the Lubyanka wasn’t the only building to fear. There was Butyrka prison with its tall towers and squalid wings filled with cramped cells where inmates played with matchsticks whilst waiting for their deportation to the labour camps. Or there was Lefortovo, where criminals under active investigation were transported for interrogations and where screams could be heard from neighbouring streets. But Leo understood that the Lubyanka held a special place in the people’s psyche, representing the place where those guilty of anti-Soviet agitation, counter-revolutionary activity and espionage were processed. Why did that category of prisoner strike particular dread into everyone’s heart? While it was easy to comfort yourself that you would never steal or rape or murder, no one could ever be sure they weren’t guilty of anti-Soviet agitation, counter-revolutionary activity and espionage since no one, including Leo, could ever be sure exactly what these crimes were. In the one hundred and forty articles of the criminal code Leo had just one article to guide him, a subsection defining the political prisoner as a person engaged in activity intended to:
Overthrow, subvert, or weaken the Soviet Power.
And that was more or less it: an elastic set of words stretching to accommodate anyone from top-ranking Party officials to ballet dancers to musicians to retired cobblers. Not even those who worked within the Lubyanka’s walls, not even those who kept this machinery of fear ticking could be certain that the system they sustained would not one day swallow them too.
Despite the fact that Leo was indoors he was still wearing his outdoor attire, including leather gloves and a long woollen overcoat. He was shivering. When he stood still the floor seemed to rock from side to side. Dizzy spells came over him, lasting for several seconds. He felt as if he was going to collapse. He hadn’t eaten in two days yet the thought of food made him sick. Even so he stubbornly refused to consider the possibility he was ill: he was a little cold certainly, tired perhaps, but that would pass. In the post-amphetamine crash, he just needed to sleep. There was no way he could take a day off. Not today, not when there was the matter of Anatoly Brodsky’s interrogation.
Interrogations were technically not part of his duties. The MGB had specialists who did nothing but interview suspects, moving from cell to cell, extracting confessions with professional indifference and personal pride. They were motivated, like most employees, by simple things such as the prospect of a performance-related-pay bonus, rewarded if the suspect signed promptly and unconditionally without amendments. Leo knew a little of their methods. He knew none of them personally. Interrogators formed something of a clique, working as a team, often sharing the same suspects, combining their particular gifts to attack resilience from a variety of different angles. Brutal, articulate, disarming: all of these qualities had their place. Outside of work these men and women ate together, walked together, shared stories and compared methods. Though they looked more or less like anyone else it was for some reason relatively easy for Leo to point them out. Many of their more extreme operations were confined to the basement, where they were able to control environmental elements such as heat and light. In contrast, Leo’s role as investigator meant he spent most of his time either upstairs or outside. The basement was a world he rarely descended to, a world he’d closed his eyes to, a world he preferred to keep under his feet.
After a short wait Leo was called in. Unsteady, he entered Major Kuzmin’s office. Nothing in this room was accidental: everything had been meticulously planned and positioned. The walls were decorated with framed black-and-white photos, including one in which Stalin was shaking Kuzmin’s hand, a photo taken at the Leader’s seventieth birthday. Surrounding these were a selection of framed propaganda posters collected from different decades. Leo supposed the age range was intended to suggest that Kuzmin had always occupied this office even during the purges of the 1930s, which was not the case, he had been in army intelligence. There was a poster of a plump white rabbit in a cage. EAT MORE RABBIT MEAT! There were three powerful red figures smashing their red hammers against the heads of sulky-looking unshaven men. FIGHT LAZY WORKERS! There were three smiling women heading into a factory. TRUST YOUR SAVINGS TO US! The US in the last poster didn’t refer to the three smiling women but rather to the national savings account. There was a poster of a bulbous man dressed in a suit and top hat carrying two bags brimming with money. CAPITALIST CLOWNS! There were blocky images of docks, ship-building, railways, smiling workers, angry workers and a fleet of locomotives all in honour of Lenin. BUILD! These posters were rotated regularly and Kuzmin was fastidious about showing off his extensive collection. Equal care was spent on his book collection. His shelves were stocked with all the appropriate titles whilst his copy of The History of the All-Union Communist Party: Short Course, the text ushered in by Stalin himself, rarely left his desk. Even the waste-paper basket contained only rigorously selected items. Everyone from the lowliest clerk to the highest-ranking officer understood that if you genuinely wanted to dispose of something you sneaked it out, discreetly getting rid of it on the way home.
Kuzmin stood by the window overlooking Lubyanka Square. He was squat and wearing, as he tended to do, a uniform one size too small for his frame. His glasses were thick and often slid down his nose. In short he was a ridiculous-looking man and not even the supreme power of life and death had bestowed upon him any gravitas. Although, as far as Leo was aware, Kuzmin no longer took part in interrogations it was rumoured that in his day he’d been something of an expert, preferring to use his small, fat hands. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe.
Leo sat down. Kuzmin remained standing by the window. He preferred to pose questions whilst looking outside. This was because he believed, and often reminded Leo, that outward displays of emotion should be treated with extreme scepticism unless the person was unaware that he or she was being observed. He’d become adept at appearing to gaze out at the view whilst actually watching people in the reflection. The usefulness of this trick was significantly reduced by the fact that almost everyone, including Leo, was aware they were being watched. And anyway very few people lowered their guard inside the Lubyanka.
— Congratulations, Leo. I knew you’d get him. The experience was a valuable lesson for you.
Leo nodded.
— Are you ill?
Leo paused. Evidently he looked worse than he imagined.
— It’s nothing. A cold perhaps but it will pass.
— My guess is that you’re annoyed with me for having taken you off the Brodsky case to make you deal with Fyodor Andreev. Am I correct? You think Fyodor was an irrelevance and I should’ve left you to continue the operation against Brodsky.
He was smiling, something amused him. Leo concentrated, sensing danger.
— No, Major, I’m not annoyed. I should’ve arrested Brodsky immediately. It was my fault.
— Yes, but you did not arrest him immediately. So, in those circumstances, was I wrong to take you off the case of the spy and make you speak to a grieving father? That is my question.
— I had only thought about my own failure to arrest Brodsky immediately.
— That’s evasive of you. My point is simply this: Fyodor’s family wasn’t a trivial issue. It was a corruption within the very MGB itself. One of your men had become twisted by grief and unwittingly made himself and his family enemies of the State. While I’m pleased you caught Brodsky, I considered your work with Fyodor the more important.
— I understand.
— Then we come to the matter of Vasili Nikiyin.
It was inevitable that his actions would be reported. Vasili wouldn’t hesitate to try and use them against him. Leo couldn’t presume on Kuzmin’s support or guess which aspect of the incident concerned him the most.
— You pointed a gun at him? And then you hit him? He says you were out of control. He says you were taking narcotics. They’ve made you irrational. He’s pushing for your suspension. He’s upset, you understand.
Leo understood perfectly: the executions were not the issue here.
— I was ranking officer and I gave an order. Vasili disobeyed. How can I maintain the line of command, how can any of us maintain command, if orders are ignored? The system collapses. Perhaps it’s my military background. In military operations disobedience and insubordination are punishable by death.
Kuzmin nodded. Leo had chosen his defence wisely — the principles of military decorum.
— You’re right, of course. Vasili is hot-headed. He admits as much. He disobeyed an order. This is true. But he was enraged by the family’s collaboration. I’m not condoning what he did, you understand. We have a system in place for such violations. They should’ve been brought here. And Vasili has been appropriately reprimanded. As for the drugs—
— I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. And they are supplied to me by the doctors here.
— They don’t concern me in the least. I told you to do whatever it takes, which I suppose extends to taking whatever it takes. But I wish to give you a word of warning. Hitting a fellow officer gets you noticed. People will quickly forget that your reasons were sound. As soon as Vasili lowered his gun that should’ve been the end of it. If you wished to punish him further you should have reported his insubordination to me. You took justice into your own hands. That is not acceptable. That is never acceptable.
— I apologize.
Kuzmin moved away from the window. Standing by Leo’s side, he put a hand on his shoulder.
— Enough of all that. Consider the matter closed. I have a different challenge for you: Brodsky’s interrogation. I want you to handle it personally. You may call on whoever you like to assist you — a specialist interrogator — but I want you to be present when he cracks. It’s important that you see this man for who he really is, particularly since you were duped by his apparent innocence.
It was an unusual request. Kuzmin noted Leo’s surprise.
— It will be good for you. We should measure a man by what they’re prepared to do themselves. Not by what they’re prepared to have others do for them. Do you have any objection?
— None.
Leo stood up, straightening his jacket.
— I’ll begin immediately.
— One last thing: I want you and Vasili to work together on this.
There were three types of cell. There were the holding cells: square rooms, a floor covered with straw, with enough space for three adult men to lie side by side. There were always five men in any one cell, packed so tightly that one man couldn’t scratch himself without the others also moving, a human jigsaw of limbs. Since there was no latrine, space also had to be made for the bucket which the men were obliged to use in each other’s company. Once it was brimming prisoners were made to carry it to the nearest drain and told that if they spilled even the smallest drop they would be shot. Leo had listened to the guards discussing the prisoners’ comical expressions of concentration as they stared at the quivering level of faeces and urine, a level which decided whether they lived or died. Barbarity, certainly, but barbarity for a reason, barbarity for the greater good.
Greater Good the Greater Good
It was necessary to repeat it, to carve it onto every thought, so that it ran like ticker tape across the bottom of your mind.
After the holding cells, there were punishment cells of various designs. Some were ankle deep in freezing water, the walls covered in mould and slime. A five-day stretch was sufficient to ensure the body never recovered, sickness permanently stitched into a prisoner’s lungs. There were narrow closets, like wooden coffins, where bedbugs had been left to multiply and in which a prisoner would remain, naked, feasted upon, until ready to sign a confession. There were cork-lined rooms where prisoners were heated, cooked by the building’s ventilation system, until blood seeped out of their pores. There were rooms with hooks and chains and electric wires. There were all kinds of punishments for all kinds of people. The imagination was the only barrier and not much of one at that. All these horrors seemed small when placed beside the size and magnitude of the greater good.
Greater Good the Greater Good the Greater Good
The justification of such methods was simple and persuasive and needed constant repeating: these people were enemies. Had Leo not seen equally extreme measures during war? Yes, and worse. Had that war not won them freedom? Was this not the same, a war against a different kind of enemy, an enemy within but an enemy all the same? Was it necessary? Yes, it was. The survival of their political system justified anything. The promise of a golden age where none of this brutality would exist, where everything would be in plenty and poverty would be a memory, justified anything. These methods were not desirable, they were not to be celebrated and the officers who took pleasure from their work were incomprehensible. Yet Leo was no fool. Within this polished and practised sequence of self-justification there was a small amount of denial, denial which sat dormant in the pit of his stomach like an undigested seed pod.
Finally, the last type of cells, were the interrogation cells. Leo had arrived at one such cell where they were holding the traitor: a plate-steel door with a viewing hole. He knocked, wondering what he would find inside. The door was unlocked by a boy barely seventeen years old. The cell itself was small and rectangular with stark concrete walls and stark concrete floors but so brightly lit that Leo squinted as he entered. Five powerful bulbs hung from the ceiling. Against the back wall, incongruous in the bleak setting, was a sofa. Anatoly Brodsky was sitting on it, his wrists and ankles tied with rope. The young officer proudly explained:
— He keeps shutting his eyes, keeps trying to sleep. But me, I keep hitting him. He hasn’t had a moment’s rest, I promise you. That sofa’s the best part. All he wants to do is sit back and doze off. It’s comfortable, really soft. I’ve sat on it. But I won’t let him sleep. It’s like putting food just out of reach of a starving man.
Leo nodded and could see the young officer was a little disappointed not to receive more gushing praise of his dedication. The officer took up position in the corner of the room, armed with his black wooden baton. Rigid, earnest, with red cheeks, he looked like a toy soldier.
Brodsky was sat on the edge of the sofa, hunched forward, his eyes half closed. There were no other chairs and Leo sat on the sofa beside him. It was a preposterous arrangement. The sofa was indeed very soft and Leo sank back, appreciating the peculiar torture of this room. But he didn’t have time to waste, he had to work quickly. Vasili would be here any minute and Leo hoped that Anatoly could be persuaded to cooperate before he arrived.
Anatoly looked up, his eyes widening a fraction. It took him a moment before his sleep-deprived brain recognized the man seated beside him. This was the man who’d caught him. This was the man who’d saved his life. Drowsy, his words slurred, he said as though he’d been drugged.
— The children? Mikhail’s daughters? Where are they now?
— They’ve been placed in an orphanage. They’re safe.
An orphanage — was that meant as a joke, was that part of this punishment? No, this man wouldn’t make a joke. He was a believer.
— Have you ever been to an orphanage?
— No.
— The girls would’ve had a better chance of surviving if you’d left them on their own.
— The State is looking after them now.
To Leo’s surprise the prisoner reached up and, with his wrists still bound, felt his brow. The junior officer sprang forward, raising the wooden baton, ready to crack a blow across the prisoner’s knees. Leo waved him away and the officer reluctantly stepped back.
— You have a fever. You should be at home. You men have a home? Where you sleep and eat and do all the things normal men do?
Leo wondered at this man. He was still a doctor, even now. He was still irreverent, even now. He was brave, rude and Leo couldn’t help but like him.
Leo pulled back, wiping his clammy forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.
— You can save yourself unnecessary suffering by talking to me. There’s not a person we’ve questioned who didn’t wish they’d admitted everything straightaway. What will you gain by silence?
— I will gain nothing.
— Then will you tell me the truth?
— Yes.
— Who are you working for?
— Anna Vladislovovna. Her cat is going blind. Dora Andreyeva. Her dog refuses to eat. Arkadi Maslow. His dog has broken its front leg. Matthias Rakosi. He has a collection of rare birds.
— If you’re innocent, why did you run?
— I ran because you were following me. There was no other reason.
— That doesn’t make sense.
— I agree but it’s true all the same. Once you’re followed you’re always arrested. Once you’re arrested you’re always guilty. No innocent people are ever brought here.
— Which officials from the American Embassy are you working with and what information have you been passing them?
At last Anatoly understood. Several weeks ago a junior clerk working for the American Embassy had brought his dog in for examination. The dog was suffering from an infected cut. It needed a course of antibiotics but since the antibiotics were unavailable he’d cleaned the animal carefully, sterilized the injury and kept it in under observation. Not long after that he’d spotted a man loitering outside his home. He hadn’t slept that night, unable to figure out what he’d done wrong. The next morning he’d been followed into work and followed home again. This continued for three days. After the fourth sleepless night he’d decided to run. Now, finally, here were the details of his crime. He’d treated a foreigner’s dog.
— I have no doubt that I will eventually say whatever it is you want me to say but right now I will say this: I — Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky — am a vet. Soon your records will say that I was a spy. You will have my signature and my confession. You will force me to give you names. There will be more arrests, more signatures and more confessions. But whatever I eventually tell you will be a lie because I am a vet.
— You’re not the first guilty man to claim that he’s innocent.
— Do you really believe I’m a spy?
— From this conversation alone I have enough to convict you for subversion. You’ve already made it quite clear that you hate this country.
— I don’t hate this country. You hate this country. You hate the people of this country. Why else would you arrest so many of them?
Leo grew impatient.
— Are you aware of what will happen to you if you don’t talk to me?
— Even children are aware of what goes on in here.
— But you still refuse to confess?
— I will not make this easy for you. If you want me to say I’m a spy you will have to torture me.
— I’d hoped this could be avoided.
— You think you can remain honourable down here? Go get your knives. Get your tool kit. When your hands are covered in my blood then let’s hear you sound reasonable.
— All I need is a list of names.
— There’s nothing more stubborn than a fact. That is why you hate them so much. They offend you. That is why I can upset you simply by saying that I — Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky — am a vet. My innocence offends you because you wish me to be guilty. You wish me to be guilty because you’ve arrested me.
There was a knock on the door. Vasili had arrived. Leo stood up, muttering:
— You should have taken my offer.
— Perhaps one day you’ll understand why I could not.
The young officer unlocked the door. Vasili entered. He was wearing a sterilized dressing at the point where he’d been hit, which Leo suspected was of no practical value, intended only to trigger conversation and enable him to describe the incident to as many people as possible. Vasili was accompanied by a middle-aged man with thinning hair and dressed in a crumpled suit. Seeing Leo and Anatoly together, Vasili seemed concerned.
— Has he confessed?
— No.
Evidently relieved, Vasili signalled for the junior officer to get the prisoner to his feet whilst the middle-aged man in the brown suit stepped forward, smiling, offering Leo his hand.
— Doctor Roman Hvostov. I’m a psychiatrist.
— Leo Demidov.
— Pleased to meet you.
They shook hands. Hvostov gestured at the prisoner.
— Don’t worry about him.
Hvostov led them to his surgery, the door to which he unlocked, gesturing for them to come in, as though they were children and this was his playroom. The surgery was small and clean. There was a red leather chair bolted to the white-tiled floor. By using a series of levers the chair could be lowered to become a bed and then raised upright again. On the walls were glass cabinets filled with bottles and powders and pills, labelled with neat white stickers and careful, tidy black handwriting. Hanging beneath the cabinet was an array of steel surgical instruments. There was a smell of disinfectant. Brodsky didn’t struggle as he was strapped to the chair. His wrists, ankles and neck were fastened with black leather straps. Leo tied his feet whilst Vasili tied his arms. Once they were finished he was unable to move any part of his body. Leo stepped back. Hvostov scrubbed his hands at the sink.
— For a time I worked in a Gulag, near the city of Molotov. The hospital was full of people pretending to be mentally ill. They would do anything to get out of work. They would run around like animals, screaming obscenities, tearing their clothes off, masturbating in full view, defecating on the floor, anything and everything to convince me they were deranged. You could trust none of it. My job was to identify who was lying and who was genuine. There were numerous academic tests but prisoners quickly caught on and this information was shared and soon everyone knew how to behave in order to cheat the system. For example a prisoner who thought he was Hitler or a horse or something equally and obviously outlandish was almost certainly pretending to be insane. And so prisoners stopped pretending to be Hitler and became much more subtle and sophisticated in their deceptions. In the end there was only one way of getting to the truth.
He filled a syringe with thick yellow oil, then positioned it on a steel tray and carefully cut away part of the prisoner’s shirt, tying a rubber tourniquet around the top of his arm in order to expose a wide blue vein which popped up. Hvostov addressed the prisoner:
— I hear you have some medical knowledge. I’m about to inject camphor oil into your bloodstream. Do you understand what that will do to you?
— My medical experience is limited to helping people.
— This can help people too. It can help the deluded. It will induce a seizure. While you are in this seizure you will be unable to lie. In fact you will not have the ability to do very much at all. If you are able to speak you will only be able to speak the truth.
— Then go ahead. Inject your oil. Hear what I have to say.
Hvostov addressed Leo.
— We’ll use a rubber gag. This is to stop him biting off his tongue during the most intense part of the seizure. However, once he calms down we can safely remove the gag and you may ask your questions.
Vasili picked up a scalpel and began using the tip to clean his fingernails, wiping the line of dirt on the side of coat. Once he was done he put the scalpel down and reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The doctor shook his head.
— Not in here, please.
Vasili put the cigarette away. The doctor inspected the syringe — there was a yellow dewdrop of oil at the needle’s tip. Satisfied, he sank the needle into Brodsky’s vein.
— We need to do this slowly. Too quick and he’ll suffer an embolism.
He pushed down on the plunger and the treacle-thick yellow oil moved from the syringe into the prisoner’s arm.
The effects did not take long. Suddenly all intelligence left Anatoly Brodsky’s eyes: they rolled back in his head and his body began to shake as if the chair he was strapped to was charged with a thousand volts. The needle was still in his arm and only a small fraction of the oil had been injected.
— And now we inject a little more.
Another five millilitres was injected and bubbles appeared at the corners of Brodsky’s mouth, small white bubbles.
— And now we wait, we wait, we wait, and now we inject the rest.
Hvostov injected the remaining oil, pulling the needle out and pressing a cotton pad against the entry point on the arm. He stepped back.
Brodsky was less like a human and more like a machine gone wrong, an engine pushed past its limits. His body was pulling against the restraints in a way that suggested that there was some external force acting upon him. There was a crack. A bone in his wrist snapped as it jerked against the restraint. Hvostov peered at the injury, which was already swelling up:
— That’s not unusual.
He said, glancing at his watch:
— Wait a little longer.
Two separate streams of foam dribbled down from either side of the prisoner’s mouth, running underneath his chin and dripping onto his legs. The vibrations were slowing down.
— OK. Ask your questions. See what he says.
Vasili stepped forward and untied the rubber gag. Brodsky vomited foam and saliva onto his lap. Vasili turned around with an incredulous look.
— What the fuck is he going to tell us like this?
— Try.
— Who are you working with?
In response the man’s head slumped against the restraint. He gurgled. Blood ran out of his nose. Hvostov used a tissue to wipe away the blood.
— Try again.
— Who are you working with?
Brodsky’s head rolled to the side, like a puppet, a doll: lifelike, capable of motion, but not actually alive. His mouth opened and shut, his tongue extended — the mechanical imitation of speech but there was no sound.
— Try again.
— Who are you working with?
— Try again.
Vasili shook his head, turning to Leo.
— This is stupid. You try.
Leo’s back was pressed against the wall, as though trying to move as far away as possible. He stepped forward.
— Who are you working with?
A noise came from Brodsky’s mouth. It was ridiculous, comical, like a baby’s spluttering. Hvostov crossed his arms and peered into Brodsky’s eyes.
— Try again. Ask simple questions to start off with. Ask him his name.
— What is your name?
— Try again. Trust me. He’s coming out of it. Try again. Please.
Leo stepped closer. He was close enough to reach out and touch his brow.
— What is your name?
His lips moved.
— Anatoly.
— Who are you working with?
He was no longer shaking. His eyes rolled forward.
— Who are you working with?
There was silence for a moment. And then he spoke, faint, hurried — as a man might speak in his sleep.
— Anna Vladislovovna. Dora Andreyeva. Arkadi Maslow. Matthias Rakosi.
Vasili reached for his notepad, scribbling down the names, asking:
— Recognize any of those names?
Yes, Leo recognized those names: Anna Vladislovovna: her cat is going blind. Dora Andreyeva: her dog refuses to eat. Arkadi Maslow: his dog has broken its front leg. The seed of doubt, sitting dormant and undigested in the pit of Leo’s stomach, cracked open.
Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky was a vet.
Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky was nothing more than a vet.
17 February
Dr Zarubin put on his mink-fur-lined hat, picked up his leather bag and nudged his way off the crowded tramcar, half-heartedly apologizing. The pavement was icy and, stepping down, he held on to the side of the tramcar for support. He felt old suddenly; unsteady on his feet, fearful of slipping over. The tramcar pulled away. He looked around, hoping this was the right stop — the eastern outskirts were a district he knew vaguely. But it proved a simple matter to get his bearings — his destination dominated the grey winter skyline. On the opposite side of the road stretching many hundreds of metres above him and above everything else was a set of four U-shaped apartment blocks arranged in pairs with each block positioned as if one were the reflection of the other. The doctor marvelled at this modern design, home to thousands of families. This wasn’t just a housing project. It was a monument to a new era. No more privately owned one- or two-storey properties. Those were gone, flattened, smashed to brick dust, and in their place stood perfectly formed, government-designed and owned apartments, each painted grey and stacked up and up and side by side. Nowhere had he seen exactly the same shapes repeated so many times in so many directions, each apartment a perfect facsimile of the next. The thick layer of snow which capped the roof of each building was as though God had drawn a white line and said no further, the rest of the sky is mine. That, Zarubin thought, was their next challenge: the rest of the sky. It certainly didn’t belong to God. Somewhere in one of these four buildings was apartment 124–the home of MGB officer Leo Stepanovich Demidov.
Earlier this morning the doctor had been briefed by Major Kuzmin on the details of Leo’s sudden departure. He’d left at the beginning of a crucial interrogation, claiming to feel feverish and unable to continue his duties. The major was concerned by the timing of the departure. Was Leo really sick? Or was there another reason for his absence? Why had he given assurances that he was well enough to work only to change his mind after being set the task of interrogating the suspect? And why had he attempted to interview the traitor alone? The doctor had been dispatched to investigate the authenticity of Leo’s illness.
From a medical standpoint the doctor supposed, even before an examination, that Leo’s poor health was due to his prolonged exposure to icy water, possibly pneumonia exacerbated by his use of narcotics. And if this was the case, if he was genuinely sick, then Zarubin was to behave as a doctor and facilitate his recovery. If, however, he was feigning sickness for whatever reason then Zarubin was to behave as an MGB officer and dope him with a powerful sedative, which he would administer by pretending it was a medicine or tonic. Leo would be bedridden for twenty-four hours preventing him from escape and giving the major time to decide how best to proceed.
According to the steel floor plan affixed to a concrete pillar at the base of the first building apartment number 124 was located in the third block on the fourteenth floor. The elevator, a metal box with space for two, or four if you didn’t mind snuggling against each other, rattled its way up to the thirteenth floor where it paused briefly, as though taking a breath, before making up the final distance. Zarubin needed both hands to pull the stiff grate sideways. At this height the wind over the exposed concrete walkway brought tears to his eyes. He glanced out at the panorama over the tatty fringes of a snow-covered Moscow before turning left and arriving at apartment 124.
The door was opened by a young woman. The doctor had read Leo’s file and knew that he was married to a woman called Raisa Gavrilovna Demidova: twenty-seven years old, a schoolteacher. The file hadn’t mentioned that she was beautiful. She was, notably so, and it should’ve been in the file. These things mattered. He hadn’t prepared himself for it. He had a weakness for beauty; not the ostentatious, self-regarding kind. His preference was for understated beauty. Here was such a woman: it wasn’t that she’d made no effort over her appearance, on the contrary, she’d made every effort to appear unremarkable, to play down her beauty. Her hair, her clothes were styled in the most common of fashions, if they could be called fashions at all. Evidently she did not seek the attention of men, a fact which made her all the more attractive to the doctor. She would be a challenge. In his younger years the doctor had been a womanizer, legendary in fact among certain social circles. Inspired by the memories of his previous successes he smiled at her.
Raisa glimpsed a set of stained teeth, no doubt yellow from years of heavy smoking. She smiled in response. She’d expected the MGB to send someone even though they’d given no warning and she waited for this man to introduce himself.
— I’m Doctor Zarubin. I’ve been sent to look in on Leo.
— I’m Raisa, Leo’s wife. You have identification?
The doctor took off his hat, found his card and presented it.
— Please: call me Boris.
There were candles burning in the apartment. Raisa explained that there was only intermittent power at the moment — there was a recurrent problem with the electricity on all floors above the tenth. They suffered periodic blackouts, sometimes lasting for a minute, sometimes for a day. She apologized, she didn’t know when the power might be coming back on. Zarubin made what seemed to be a joke.
— He’ll survive. He’s not a flower. As long as he’s kept warm.
She asked if the doctor wanted a drink: something hot perhaps since it was cold outside. He accepted her offer: touching the back of her hand as she took his coat.
In the kitchen, the doctor leant against the wall, his hands in his pockets, watching as she prepared tea.
— I hope the water is still hot.
She had a pleasant voice, soft and calm. She brewed loose leaves in a small pot before pouring it into a tall glass. The tea was strong, almost black, and once the glass was half full she turned to him.
— How strong do you like it?
— As strong as you can make it.
— Like this, then?
— Perhaps just a little more water.
As she topped it up with water from the samovar, Zarubin’s eyes drifted down her body, roaming over the outline of her breasts, her waist. Her clothes were dowdy — a grey cotton dress, thick stockings, a knitted cardigan over a white shirt. He wondered why Leo hadn’t used his position to dress her in foreign tailored luxuries. But even mass-produced garments and coarse material didn’t make her any less desirable.
— Tell me about your husband.
— He has a fever. He claims to feel cold when he’s hot. He’s shaking. He refuses to eat.
— If he has a fever it’s best that he doesn’t eat for the time being. However, his lack of appetite might also be due to his use of amphetamines. Do you know anything about this?
— If it’s to do with his work I know nothing.
— Have you noticed any changes in him?
— He skips meals, he’s out all night. But then his work demands that. I’ve noticed that after working long stretches he tends to become a little absent-minded.
— He forgets things?
She handed the doctor his glass.
— Would you like sugar?
— Jam would be nice.
She reached for the top shelf. As she did the back of her shirt lifted up revealing a patch of pale, perfect skin. Zarubin felt his mouth go dry. She took down a jar of dark purple jam, unscrewing the lid and offering him a spoon. He scooped out a clump of jam and placed it on his tongue, sipping the hot tea, feeling the jam dissolve. With a deliberate intensity he stared into her eyes. Made aware of his desire, she blushed. He watched as the flush of red spread around her neck.
— Thank you.
— Perhaps you’d like to get on with the examination?
She screwed the lid back on the jar, leaving it on the side and stepping towards the bedroom. He didn’t move.
— I’d like to finish my tea first. There’s no rush.
She was forced to return. Zarubin pursed his lips and blew across the surface. The tea was hot and sweet. She was flustered. He was enjoying making her wait.
The windowless bedroom was hot, the air stale. Zarubin knew from the smell alone that the man lying in bed was ill. To his surprise he felt something like disappointment. Pondering what underlay this feeling he sat down on the bed, beside Leo. He took his temperature. It was high but not dangerously so. He listened to Leo’s chest. He could hear nothing out of the ordinary. Leo wasn’t suffering from tuberculosis. There were no indications that this was anything more than a cold. Raisa stood beside him, watching. The doctor could smell soap on her hands. He liked being this close to her. He took a brown glass bottle from his bag and measured out a spoonful of thick green liquid.
— Please lift his head.
She helped her husband into a sitting position. Zarubin tipped the liquid down his throat. Once he’d swallowed she lowered Leo’s head onto the pillow.
— What was that for?
— It’s a tonic — to help him sleep.
— He needs no help with that.
The doctor didn’t reply. He couldn’t be bothered to think up a lie. The drug administered in the guise of a medicine was in fact the doctor’s own creation: a combination of a barbiturate, a hallucinogenic and, to disguise the taste, flavoured sugar syrup. Its purpose was to incapacitate the body and mind. Administered orally, in less than an hour the muscles went first — becoming slack, relaxed to the point where even the slightest movement felt like unimaginable hard work. The hallucinogenic kicked in shortly after.
An idea had taken hold of Zarubin: it had taken shape in the kitchen when Raisa had blushed and crystallized into a plan the moment he’d smelt soap on her hands. If he reported that Leo wasn’t sick, that he was faking his leave of absence, then he would almost certainly be arrested and interrogated. With all the other doubts surrounding his behaviour there would be a heavy weight of suspicion. He’d most probably be imprisoned. His wife, his beautiful wife, would end up alone and vulnerable. She’d be in need of an ally. Zarubin’s status within the State Security forces matched or even surpassed Leo’s and he felt sure he could offer an acceptable, comfortable alternative. Zarubin was married but he could take her as a mistress. He was convinced that Raisa’s survival instinct was highly tuned. Yet all things considered there might be a less complicated way of getting what he wanted. He stood up.
— Can we speak in private?
In the kitchen, Raisa crossed her arms. There was a furrow in her brow — a tiny crinkle in her otherwise perfect pale skin. Zarubin wanted to run his tongue along it.
— Will my husband be OK?
— He’s suffering from a fever. And I would be prepared to say that.
— You would be prepared to say what?
— I’d be prepared to say that he was genuinely sick.
— He is genuinely sick. You just said so yourself.
— Do you understand why I’m here?
— Because you’re a doctor and my husband is ill.
— I’ve been sent to discover if your husband is genuinely ill or if he’s merely trying to avoid work.
— But it’s obvious that he’s sick. Doctor or not, anyone could see that.
— Yes, but I’m the one who’s here. I’m the one who decides. And they’ll believe what I say.
— Doctor, you just said he was sick. You said he was suffering from a fever.
— And I would be prepared to say that, on the record, if you were prepared to sleep with me.
Remarkably she didn’t even blink. No visible reaction. Her coolness made Zarubin want her even more. He continued:
— It would only be once, of course, unless you took a fancy to me, in which case it could continue. We could come to some arrangement: you’d be rewarded with whatever you wanted, within reason. The point is that no one need ever know.
— And if I said no?
— I would say that your husband was a liar. I would say that he was desperate to avoid work for reasons unknown to me. I would recommend that he be investigated.
— They wouldn’t believe you.
— Are you sure of that? The suspicion is already there. All it needs is a slight push from me.
Taking her silence as acceptance of his offer, Zarubin stepped towards her tentatively pressing a hand against her leg. She didn’t move. They could have sex in the kitchen. No one would know. Her husband wouldn’t wake. She could moan with pleasure, she could make as much noise as she liked.
Raisa glanced sideways, disgusted, unsure what to do. Zarubin’s hand slid down her leg.
— Don’t worry. Your husband is fast asleep. He won’t disturb us. We won’t disturb him.
His hand moved under her skirt.
— You might even enjoy it. Many other women have.
He was so close she could smell his breath. He leaned towards her, his lips parting, his yellow teeth nearing her as though she were an apple he was about to bite into. She pushed past him. He grabbed her wrist.
— Ten minutes is hardly a high price to pay for the life of your husband. Do it for him.
He pulled her closer, his grip tightening.
Suddenly he let go, raising both his hands in the air. Raisa had a knife against his throat.
— If you’re unsure of my husband’s condition, please inform Major Kuzmin — a good friend of ours — to send another doctor. A second opinion would be most welcome.
The two of them sidestepped around each other, the knife against his neck, until Zarubin backed out of the kitchen. Raisa remained at the entrance to the kitchen, holding the knife at waist height. The doctor took his coat, leisurely putting it on. He picked up his leather bag, opening the front door and squinting as he adjusted to the bright winter sunlight:
— Only children still believe in friends and only stupid children at that.
Raisa stepped forward, snatching his hat from the peg and tossing it at his feet. As he bent down to pick it up she slammed the front door shut.
Hearing him walk away, her hands were shaking. She was still holding the knife. Perhaps she’d given him some reason for thinking she’d sleep with him. She ran the events through her mind: opening the door, smiling at his ridiculous joke, taking his coat, making tea. Zarubin was deluded. There was nothing she could’ve done about that. But maybe she could’ve flirted with his proposition, pretended that she was tempted. Maybe the old fool only needed to think that she was flattered by his advances. She rubbed her brow. She’d handled that badly. They were in danger.
She entered the bedroom and sat down beside Leo. His lips were moving as though in silent prayer. She leaned closer, trying to make sense of his words. They were barely audible, fragments which didn’t match up. He was delirious. He gripped her hand. His skin was clammy. She pulled her hand free and blew the candle out.
Leo was standing in snow, the river before him, Anatoly Brodsky on the opposite side. He’d made it across and was almost at the safety of the forests. Leo stepped after him only to see that under his feet, locked within the thick sheet of ice, were the men and women he’d arrested. He looked left and right — the entire river was filled with their frozen bodies. If he wanted to get to the forests, if he wanted to catch that man, he had to walk over them. With no choice — it was his duty — Leo quickened his pace. But his footsteps seemed to bring the bodies to life. The ice began to melt. The river came alive, writhing. Sinking into a slush Leo now felt faces under his boots. It didn’t matter how fast he ran, they were everywhere, behind, in front. A hand caught his foot — he shook it free. Another hand grabbed his ankle, a second, a third, a fourth. He closed his eyes, not daring to look, waiting to be dragged down.
When Leo opened his eyes he was standing in a drab office. Raisa was beside him, wearing a pale red dress, the dress she’d borrowed from a friend on the day of their wedding, hastily adjusted so that it didn’t look too big on her. In her hair she wore a single white flower picked from the park. He was wearing an ill-fitting grey suit. The suit wasn’t his: he’d borrowed it from a colleague. They were in a rundown office in a rundown government building, standing side by side, in front of a table where a balding man was hunched over paperwork. Raisa presented their documentation and they waited whilst their identities were checked. There were no vows, no ceremony or bouquets of flowers. There were no guests, no tears or well-wishers — there was just the two of them, wearing the best clothes they could manage. No fuss: it was bourgeois to make a fuss. Their only witness, this balding civil servant, entered their details into a thick, well-thumbed ledger. Once the paperwork was completed they were handed a marriage certificate. They were man and wife.
Back at his parents’ old apartment, the place where they’d celebrated their wedding, there were friends, neighbours, all keen to take advantage of the hospitality. Elderly men sang unfamiliar songs. Yet there was something wrong with this memory. There were faces that were cold and hard. Fyodor’s family was here. Leo was still dancing but the wedding had become a funeral. Everyone was staring at him. There was a tap at the window. Leo turned to see the outline of a man, pressed up against the glass. Leo walked towards him, wiping away the condensation. It was Mikhail Sviatoslavich Zinoviev, a bullet through his head, his jaw smashed, his head battered. Leo stepped back, turned around. The room was now completely empty except for two young girls — Zinoviev’s daughters, dressed in filthy rags. Orphans, their stomachs were swollen, their skin blistered. Lice crawled across their clothes, their eyebrows and in amongst their matted black hair. Leo closed his eyes and shook his head.
Shivering, freezing cold, he opened his eyes. He was underwater and sinking fast. The ice was above him. He tried to swim upwards but the current was pulling him down. There were people on the ice, looking down at him, watching him drown. An intense pain burned in his lungs. Unable to hold his breath, he opened his mouth.
Leo gasped, opening his eyes. Raisa was seated beside him, trying to calm him. He looked around, confused: his mind half in the dream world, half in this one. This was real: he was back in his apartment, back in the present. Relieved, he took hold of Raisa’s hand, whispering in a hurried unbroken stream.
— Do you remember the first time we saw each other? You thought I was rude, staring at you. I got off at the wrong metro stop just to ask your name. And you refused to tell me. But I wouldn’t leave until you did. So you lied and told me your name was Lena. For an entire week all I could talk about was this beautiful woman called Lena. I’d tell everyone, Lena’s so beautiful. When I finally saw you again and convinced you to walk with me I called you Lena the entire time. At the end of the walk I was ready to kiss you and you were only ready to tell me your real name. The next day I told everyone how wonderful this woman Raisa was and everyone laughed at me saying last week it was Lena this week it’s Raisa and next week it’ll be someone else. But it never was. It was always you.
Raisa listened to her husband and wondered at this sudden sentimentality. Where had it come from? Maybe everyone got sentimental when they were sick. She made him lie back and before long he was asleep again. It had been almost twelve hours since Dr Zarubin had left. A slighted, vain old man was a dangerous enemy. To take her mind off her anxieties she made soup — a thick chicken broth with strips of meat, not just boiled vegetables and chicken bones. It bubbled on a slow heat, ready for Leo when he was able to eat again. She stirred the soup, filling a bowl for herself. No sooner had she done so than there was a knock on the door. It was late. She wasn’t expecting visitors. She picked up the knife, the same knife, placing it behind her back before moving closer to the door.
— Who is it?
— It’s Major Kuzmin.
Her hands shaking, she opened the door.
Major Kuzmin was standing outside with his escort, two young, tough-looking soldiers.
— Dr Zarubin has spoken to me.
Raisa blurted out:
— Please, take a look at Leo for yourself—
Kuzmin seemed surprised.
— No, that isn’t necessary. I don’t need to disturb him. I trust the doctor on medical matters. Plus, and don’t think me a coward, I’m fearful of catching his cold.
She couldn’t understand what had happened. The doctor had told the truth. She bit her lip, trying not to let her relief show. The major continued:
— I’ve spoken to your school. I’ve explained that you’ll be taking leave in order to help Leo recover. We need him fit. He’s one of our finest officers.
— He’s lucky to have such concerned colleagues.
Kuzmin waved this comment aside. He gestured at the officer standing beside him. The man was holding a paper bag. He stepped forward, offering it to her.
— This is a gift from Dr Zarubin. So there’s no need to thank me.
Raisa was still holding the knife behind her back. In order to accept the bag she’d need both hands. She slipped the blade down the back of her skirt. Once it was in place she reached forward, accepting the bag, which was heavier than she expected.
— Will you come in?
— Thank you, but it’s late and I’m tired.
Kuzmin bade Raisa goodnight.
She shut the door and walked to the kitchen, putting the bag on the table and taking the knife from the back of her skirt. She opened the bag. It was filled with oranges and lemons, a luxury in a city of food shortages. She shut her eyes, imagining the satisfaction Zarubin was enjoying from her feelings of gratitude, not for the fruit, but for the fact that he’d merely done his job, for the fact that he’d reported that Leo was genuinely sick. The oranges and lemons were his way of saying she should feel indebted to him. Had another whim taken him, he might have had them both arrested. She emptied the bag into the bin. She stared at the bright colours before picking out every piece of fruit. She’d eat his gift. But she refused to cry.
19 February
This was the first time in four years that Leo had taken an unscheduled leave of absence. There was an entire category of Gulag prisoner convicted under violations of work ethic; people who’d left their station for an undue amount of time or who’d turned up for their shift half an hour late. It was far safer to go to work and collapse on the factory floor than to pre-emptively stay at home. The decision whether or not to work never resided with the worker. Leo was unlikely to be in any danger, however. According to Raisa he’d been checked on by a doctor and Major Kuzmin had paid him a visit, giving the OK to take time off. This meant that the anxiety he was feeling had to be about something else. The more he thought about it the more obvious it became. He didn’t want to go back to work.
For the past three days he hadn’t left his apartment. Shut off from the world, he’d stayed in bed, sipping hot lemon and sugar water, eating borscht and playing cards with his wife, who’d made no allowance for him being ill, winning almost every hand. For the most part he’d slept and after that first day he’d suffered no more nightmares. But in their place he’d felt a dullness. He’d expected the feeling to fade, convinced that his melancholy was a side effect of the methamphetamine slump. The feeling had got worse. He’d taken his supply of the drug — several glass phials of dirty white crystals — and tipped it down the sink. No more narcotic fuelled arrests. Was it the drugs? Or was it the arrests? As he’d grown stronger he found it easier to rationalize the events of the past few days. They’d made a mistake: Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky had been a mistake. He was an innocent man caught up and crushed in the cogs of a vital and important but not infallible State machine. It was as simple and as unfortunate as that. A single man didn’t dent the meaningfulness of their operations. How could he? The principles of their work remained sound. The protection of a nation was bigger than one person, bigger than a thousand people. How much did all of the Soviet Union’s factories and machines and armies weigh? Compared to this the mass of an individual was nothing. It was essential that Leo keep matters in proportion. The only way to carry on was to keep things in proportion. The reasoning was sound and he believed none of it.
In front of him stood the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky, in the centre of Lubyanka Square, framed by a patch of grass and circled by traffic. Leo knew Dzerzhinsky’s story by heart. Every agent knew his story by heart. As the first leader of the Cheka, the name of the political police created by Lenin after the overthrow of the Tsarist regime, Dzerzhinsky was the forefather of the NKVD. He was a role model. Training manuals were littered with quotes attributed to him. Perhaps his most famous and often referenced speech described how.
An officer must train his heart to be Cruel.
Cruelty was enshrined in their working code. Cruelty was a virtue. Cruelty was necessary. Aspire to Cruelty! Cruelty held the keys that would unlock the gates to the perfect State. If being a Chekist was akin to following a religious doctrine then cruelty was one of their central commandments.
Leo’s education had been centred on his athleticism, his physical prowess — a fact that had so far helped rather than hindered his career, giving him the guise of a man who could be trusted in the way that a scholar was to be suspected. But it did mean that he was forced to devote at least one night a week writing out in laborious longhand all the quotes that an agent should know by heart. Burdened with a poor memory, a condition exacerbated by his drug use, he was not a bookish man. However, an ability to recall key political speeches was essential. Any slips showed a lack of faith and dedication. And now, after three days away, as he approached the doors to the Lubyanka and looked back at Dzerzhinsky’s statue, he realized that his mind was patchy — phrases came back to him but not in their entirety and not in their correct order. All he could remember exactly, out of the thousands and thousands of words, out of the entire Chekist bible of axioms and principles, was the importance of cruelty.
Leo was shown into Kuzmin’s office. The major was seated. He indicated that Leo should take the chair opposite.
— You’re feeling better?
— Yes, thank you. My wife told me that you visited.
— We were concerned about you. It’s the first time you’ve been ill. I checked your records.
— I apologize.
— It wasn’t your fault. You were brave, swimming in that river. And we’re glad you saved him. He’s provided some critical information.
Kuzmin tapped a thin black file at the centre of his desk.
— In your absence Brodsky confessed. It took two days, two camphor shock treatments. He was remarkably stubborn. But in the end he broke. He gave us the name of seven Anglo-American sympathizers.
— Where is he now?
— Brodsky? He was executed last night.
What had Leo expected? He concentrated on keeping his expression still, as though he’d just been told it was cold outside. Kuzmin picked up the black file, handing it to Leo.
— Inside you have the full transcript of his confession.
Leo opened the file. His eyes caught the first line.
I — Anatoly Tarasovich Brodsky — am a spy.
Leo flicked through the typed pages. He recognized the pattern, opening with an apology, expressing regret before describing the nature of his crime. He’d seen this template a thousand times. They varied only in the details: the names, the places.
— Would you like me to read it now?
Kuzmin shook his head, handing him a sealed envelope.
— He named six Soviet citizens and one Hungarian man. They’re collaborators working with foreign governments. I’ve given six of the names to other agents. The seventh name is yours to investigate. Considering you’re one of my best officers I’ve given you the hardest. Inside that envelope you have our preliminary work, some photographs and all the information we currently hold on the individual, which, as you will see, is not very much. Your orders are to collect further information and if Anatoly was right, if this person is a traitor, you’re to arrest them and bring them here, the usual process.
Leo ripped open the envelope, pulling out several large black-and-white photographs. They were surveillance photographs taken at some distance from across a street.
They were photographs of Leo’s wife.
Same Day
Raisa was relieved to be nearing the end of the day. She’d spent the past eight hours teaching exactly the same lesson to all her year groups. Normally she taught compulsory political studies but this morning she’d received instructions posted to the school from the Ministry of Education ordering her to follow the enclosed lesson plan. It seemed these instructions had been sent to every school in Moscow and were to be implemented with immediate effect, ordinary lessons could resume tomorrow. The instructions stipulated that she spend the day discussing with each class how much Stalin loved his country’s children. Love itself was a political lesson. There was no more important love than the Leader’s Love, and consequently, one’s Love for the Leader. As part of that Love, Stalin wanted all of his children, no matter how old they were, to be reminded of certain basic precautions which they should make part of their daily life. They were not to cross roads without looking twice, they were to be careful when travelling on the metro and finally, and this was to be emphasized particularly, they were not to play on the railway tracks. Over the past year there had been several tragic accidents on the railways. The safety of the State’s children was paramount. They were the future. Various faintly ridiculous demonstrations had been given. Each class had concluded with a short quiz to make sure all the information had been absorbed.
Who loves you most? Correct answer: Stalin.
Who do you love most? Correct answer: see above
(wrong answers to be logged).
What should you never do? Correct answer:
play on the railway tracks.
Raisa could only presume that the reason behind this latest edict was that the Party was worried about population levels.
As a rule her classes were tiring, perhaps more so than other subjects. Whereas there was no expectation that students should clap the completion of every mathematical equation there was an expectation that every pronouncement she made regarding Generalissimo Stalin, the state of the Soviet Union or the prospects for worldwide revolution be met with applause. Students were competitive with each other, none of them wanting to seem less dedicated than their neighbour. Every five minutes the class would come to a halt as the children rose to their feet, stamping their shoes on the floor or banging their desks with their fists, and Raisa was duty bound to stand and join in. In order to stop her hands chafing, she clapped in a fashion whereby her palms would barely touch, gliding over each other in the imitation of enthusiasm. Initially she’d suspected that the children enjoyed this raucous behaviour and exploited any opportunity to interrupt a class. She’d come to realize this was not the case. They were afraid. Consequently discipline was never a problem. She rarely needed to raise her voice and never made threats of any kind. Even from the age of six the children understood that to disrespect authority, to speak out of turn, was to take your life into your own hands. Youth provided no protection. The age at which a child could be shot for their crimes, or their father’s crimes, was twelve. That was a lesson Raisa wasn’t allowed to teach.
Despite the large class sizes, which would have been larger still had it not been for the war playing havoc with demographics, she’d originally set out with the objective of remembering every student’s name. Her intention had been to show that she cared about each student individually. Yet very quickly she’d noticed her ability to recall names struck a peculiar note of unease. It was as though there were some implied menace.
If I can remember your name I can denounce you.
These children had already grasped the value of anonymity and Raisa had realized they’d prefer it if she paid them as little individual attention as possible. After less than two months she’d stopped calling them by their names and reverted to pointing.
Yet, comparatively, she had little reason to complain. The school she taught in, Secondary School 7–a rectangular building raised on stubby concrete legs — happened to be one of the gems of the State education policy. Much photographed and publicized, it was opened by none other than Nikita Khrushchev, who’d made a speech in the new gymnasium, the floor of which had been waxed to such an extent that his bodyguards struggled not to slip. He’d claimed that education must be tailored to the country’s needs. And what the country needed were highly productive, healthy young scientists, engineers and Olympic gold-medal-winning athletes. The cathedral-sized gymnasium, adjacent to the main building, was wider and deeper then the school itself, equipped with an indoor running track, an array of mats, hoops, rope ladders and springboards, all of which were put to good use by an extracurricular timetable that included an hour of training every day for every student regardless of age or ability. The implication of both his speech and the design of the school itself had been always very clear to Raisa: the country didn’t need poets, philosophers and priests. It needed productivity that could be measured and quantified, success that could be timed with a stopwatch.
Raisa counted only one friend amongst her colleagues — Ivan Kuzmitch Zhukov, a language and literature teacher. She didn’t know his exact age, he wouldn’t say, but he was around about forty. Their friendship had occurred by chance. He’d casually lamented the size of the school library — a cupboardlike room in the basement next to the boiler stocked with pamphlets, back issues of Pravda, approved texts and not a single foreign author. Hearing him, Raisa had whispered that he should be more careful. That whisper had been the beginning of an unlikely friendship which, from her point of view, might have been strategically unwise considering Ivan’s tendency to speak his mind. He was in many people’s eyes already a marked man. Other teachers were convinced that he hoarded forbidden texts under his floorboards or, far worse, he was writing a book of his own and smuggling the no doubt subversive pages out to the West. It was true that he’d loaned her an illegal translation of For Whom the Bell Tolls, which she’d been forced to read in parks over the summer and which she’d never dared take back to her apartment. Raisa could afford the association only because her own loyalty had never been too closely scrutinized. She was, after all, the wife of a State Security officer, a fact known by almost everyone, including some of the students. Logically, Ivan should have kept his distance. No doubt he reassured himself with the deduction that if Raisa had wanted to denounce him she would have done so already, considering how many imprudent things she’d heard him say and how easy it would for her to whisper his name across the pillow into the ear of her husband. So it came to be that the only person she trusted amongst the staff was the man most mistrusted and the only person he trusted was the woman he should trust least of all. He was married, with three children. All the same she suspected he was in love with her. It was not something she dwelt on and she hoped for both their sakes that it was not something he dwelt on either.
Outside the main entrance to the school, across the road, in the foyer of a low-rise apartment block, stood Leo. He’d changed out of his uniform and was wearing civilian clothing, clothing he’d borrowed from work. In the Lubyanka there were cupboards full of odds and ends: coats, jackets, trousers — all of various sizes and differing in quality, kept for exactly this purpose. Leo hadn’t thought about where these clothes had come from until he’d found a spot of blood on the cuff of a cotton shirt. They were the clothes of those executed in the building on Varsonofyevsky Lane. They’d been washed, of course, but some stains were stubborn. Dressed in an ankle-length grey woollen coat and a thick fur hat pulled down over his forehead, Leo was convinced his wife wouldn’t recognize him if by chance she glanced in his direction. He stamped his feet to keep warm, checking his watch, a stainless-steel Poljot Aviator — a birthday present from his wife. There wasn’t long until her classes were finished for the day. He glanced at the light above him. Using an abandoned mop he reached up and smashed the bulb, plunging the foyer into shadow.
This wasn’t the first time his wife had been followed. Three years ago Leo had arranged surveillance for reasons that had nothing to do with whether or not she was a security risk. They’d been married less than a year. She’d become increasingly distant. They were living together yet living apart, working long hours, glimpsing each other briefly in the morning and evening with as little interaction as two fishing boats which set sail each day from the same port. He didn’t believe that he’d changed as a husband and so couldn’t understand why she’d changed as a wife. Whenever he broached the subject she’d claimed she felt unwell yet she refused to see a doctor and anyway who was unwell month after month after month? The only explanation he could come up with was that she was in love with another man.
Duly suspicious he’d dispatched a newly recruited, promising young agent to follow his wife. This agent had done so every day for a week. Leo had justified this course of action because although unpleasant it was motivated by love. However, it had been a risk, not merely in the sense that Raisa might find out. If his colleagues had found out they might have interpreted this matter differently. If Leo couldn’t trust his wife sexually how could they trust her politically? Unfaithful or not, subversive or not, it would be better for everyone if she was sent to the Gulags. Just to be sure. But Raisa hadn’t been having an affair and no one ever found out about the surveillance. Relieved, he had accepted that he simply needed to be patient, attentive and help her with whatever difficulty she was going through. Over the months their relationship had gradually improved. Leo had transferred the young agent to a post in Leningrad, a move which he’d packaged as a promotion.
This mission, however, was something entirely different. The order to investigate had come from above. This was official State business; a matter of national security. At stake was not their marriage but their lives. There was no doubt in Leo’s mind that Raisa’s name had been inserted into Anatoly Brodsky’s confession by Vasili. The fact that another agent corroborated the details of the confession meant nothing: either it was a conspiracy, a bare-faced lie, or Vasili had planted the name in Brodsky’s head at some point during his interrogation, an easy enough thing to do. Leo blamed himself. Taking time off work had given Vasili an opportunity which he’d exploited with perfect ruthlessness. Leo was trapped. He couldn’t claim the confession itself was a lie — it was an official document as valid and true as every other confession. The only course of action had been to register his profound disbelief, suggesting that the traitor Brodsky was trying to incriminate Raisa as an act of revenge. Upon hearing this explanation Kuzmin had asked how the traitor knew that he was married. Desperate, Leo had been forced to lie, claiming that he’d mentioned his wife’s name in the course of their conversations. Leo was not a skilful liar. By defending his wife he was incriminating himself. To stand up for someone was to stitch your fate into the lining of theirs. Kuzmin had concluded that such a potential breach of security would have to be thoroughly investigated. Either Leo could do it himself or allow another operative to take over. Hearing this ultimatum, he’d accepted the case on the basis that he was simply trying to clear his wife’s name. In much the same way that three years ago he’d put to bed his doubts about her faithfulness, now he had to put to bed doubts about her faithfulness to the State.
Across the road children poured out of the school, breaking off in all directions. One young girl ran across the road, heading straight towards Leo and entering the apartment block where he was hiding. As she passed by in the gloom, her feet crunching on the shards of bulb glass, she paused, weighing up whether or not to speak. Leo turned to look at her. The girl had long black hair tied with a red band. She was perhaps seven years old. Her cheeks were pink with the cold. Quite suddenly she broke into a run, her little shoes tapping up the flight of stairs, away from this stranger and back home where she was still young enough to believe she was safe.
Leo moved to the glass door, watching as the last of the students filed out of the building. He knew Raisa wasn’t timetabled for any extracurricular activities — she’d be leaving soon. There she was, at the entrance, standing with a male colleague. He had a trim grey beard, round glasses. Leo noted that he was not an unattractive man. He looked educated, cultivated, refined, with busy eyes and a satchel brimming with books. This must be Ivan: Raisa had mentioned him, the language teacher. At a guess Leo reckoned this man was older than him by at least ten years.
Leo willed them to separate at the gates but instead they set off together, walking side by side in casual conversation. He waited, allowing them to get ahead. They were familiar with each other, Raisa laughed at a joke and Ivan seemed pleased. Did Leo make her laugh? Not really, not often. He certainly didn’t object to being laughed at when he was foolish or clumsy. He had a sense of humour in that regard but no, he didn’t tell jokes. Raisa did. She was playful, verbally, intellectually. Ever since they’d first met, ever since she’d tricked him into believing she was called Lena, he’d never been in any doubt that she was smarter than him. Considering the risks associated with intellectual agility, he’d never been jealous — until now, watching her with this man.
Leo’s feet were numb. He was glad to be on the move, trailing his wife at a distance of about fifty metres. In the weak orange glow of the street lights it wasn’t difficult to follow her — there were hardly any other people on the street. That changed when they turned on Avtozavodskaya, the main road, which was also the name of the metro station to which they were almost certainly heading. There were queues of people lined up outside grocery stores, clogging the pavements. Leo found it hard to keep track of his wife, made harder by her nondescript clothes. He had no choice but to shorten the distance between them, quickening his pace. He was less than twenty metres behind her. At this distance there was a danger she’d see him. Raisa and Ivan turned into Avtozavodskaya station, disappearing from view. Leo hurried forward, weaving in and out of the pedestrians. In the commuter crowds she might easily disappear. This was, as Pravda frequently boasted, the busiest and best metro system in the world.
Reaching the entrance to the station he descended the stone steps to the lower hall — an opulent chamber, an ambassador’s reception, with cream marble pillars, polished mahogany banisters illuminated by domes of frosted glass. Rush hour and not a centimetre of floor could be seen. Thousands of people wrapped up in long coats and scarves hustled in line at the ticket barriers. Going against the flow, Leo backtracked up the steps, using this slight elevation to survey the heads of the crowd. Raisa and Ivan had passed through the steel ticket barrier and were waiting for a place on the escalator. Leo rejoined the throng, sliding into gaps, edging forward. But stuck behind a mass of bodies he had no option but to resort to less polite methods, using his hands to steer people aside. No one dared do anything more than look annoyed, no one knew who Leo might be.
Reaching the ticket barrier, he was in time to see his wife move out of sight. He passed through, queuing and taking the first available position on the escalator. Stretching down the flight of mechanical wooden steps in a diagonal line to the bottom were the tops of a hundred winter hats. Unable to distinguish one from the other he leaned to the right. Raisa was maybe fifteen steps below him. In order to talk to Ivan, who was standing on the step behind and above her, she’d turned round and was facing upwards. Leo was in her line of view. He pulled back behind the man in front of him and, not wanting to risk another glance, waited until he was almost at the lower level before looking again. The passageway divided into two tunnels, for trains travelling north and south, each filled with passengers, shuffling forward, trying to make their way onto the platforms, vying for a position on the next train. Leo couldn’t see his wife anywhere.
If Raisa was en route home she’d be heading three stops north on the Zamoskvoretskaya line to Teatral’naya, where she’d change. With no choice other than to suppose this was what she was doing, he moved down the platform, looking right and left, studying the faces lined up, crammed together, staring out in the same direction, waiting for the train. He was halfway down the platform. Raisa wasn’t here. Could she have taken a train in the other direction? Why would she go south? Suddenly a man moved and Leo caught a glimpse of a satchel. There was Ivan. Raisa was by his side, both of them standing by the platform’s edge. Leo was so close he could almost reach out and touch her cheek. If she turned her head even a fraction they’d be eye to eye. He was almost certainly in her peripheral vision; if she hadn’t seen him it was only because she wasn’t expecting to see him. There was nothing he could do, nowhere to hide. He continued down the platform, waiting for her to call his name. He wouldn’t be able to explain this as a coincidence. She’d see through his lie, she’d know he was following her. He counted twenty steps then came to a stop by the edge of the platform, staring at the mosaic in front of him. Three separate lines of sweat ran down the side of his face. He didn’t dare wipe them away or turn to check in case she was looking in his direction. He tried to concentrate on the mosaic, a celebration of Soviet military strength — a tank with its barrel pointing straight out, flanked by heavy artillery and mounted by Russian soldiers in long sweeping coats brandishing guns. Very slowly he turned his head. Raisa was talking to Ivan. She hadn’t seen him. A gust of warm air blew down the crowded platform. The train was approaching.
As everyone turned to watch, Leo caught sight of a man looking in the opposite direction, away from the oncoming train, looking directly at him. It was the briefest of glances, eye contact for a fraction of a second. The man was maybe thirty years old. Leo had never seen him before. Yet he knew immediately this man was a fellow Chekist, a State Security operative. There was a second agent on the platform.
The crowd surged forward towards the train doors. The agent was gone, out of sight. The doors opened. Leo hadn’t moved; his body was turned away from the train, still staring at the exact point where he’d seen those cool, professional eyes. Brushed aside by passengers disembarking he recovered from his surprise and boarded the train, one carriage down from Raisa. Who was that agent? Why did they need a second agent following his wife? Didn’t they trust him? Of course they didn’t. But he hadn’t expected them to take such extreme supplementary measures. He pushed his way down towards the window through which he’d be able to see into the adjoining carriage. He could see Raisa’s hand, holding the side bar. But there was no sign of this second agent. The doors were about to shut.
The second agent boarded the same carriage as Leo, slipping past him with apparent indifference and taking up position several metres away. He was well trained, calm, and had it not been for that brief glance Leo might not have spotted him. This agent wasn’t following Raisa. He was following Leo.
He should’ve guessed that this operation wouldn’t have been left entirely in his hands. There was the possibility he was compromised. They might even suspect he was working with Raisa if she was a spy. His superiors had an obligation to make sure he did his job properly. Anything he reported back would be cross-checked with the other agent. For this reason it was essential that Raisa go straight home: if she went anywhere else, the wrong restaurant or bookshop, the wrong home where the wrong people lived, she’d be putting herself at risk. Her only chance of escape, and it was a slim chance, was by saying nothing, doing nothing, meeting nobody. She could work, shop and sleep. Any other activities were liable to be misconstrued.
If Raisa was travelling home she’d remain on this train for the next three stops, reaching Teatral’naya station, where she’d change to the Arbatsko — Pokrovskaya line and travel eastwards. Leo checked on the officer following him. Someone had stood to disembark and the agent slipped into a vacant seat. He was now casually staring out of the window, no doubt studiously watching Leo out of the corner of his eye. The agent knew he’d been sighted. Perhaps that had even been his intention. None of it mattered as long as Raisa went straight home.
The train pulled into the second station — Novokuznetskaya. One more stop till they changed. The doors opened. Leo watched as Ivan disembarked. He thought:
Please stay on the train.
Raisa got off the train, stepping down onto the platform and making her way towards the exit. She wasn’t going home. Leo didn’t know where she was going. To follow her would expose her to the scrutiny of the second agent. Not to follow her would put his life in jeopardy. He had to choose. Leo turned his head. The agent hadn’t moved. From that position he couldn’t have seen Raisa get off the train. He was taking his cue from Leo not Raisa, presuming that the movements of the two were synchronized. The doors were about to shut. Leo stayed where he was.
Leo glanced to the side, through the window, as though Raisa was still in the adjoining carriage, as though he was still checking on her. What was he doing? It had been an impulsive, reckless decision. His plan depended on the agent believing that his wife was on the train; a rickety plan at best. Leo hadn’t counted on the crowds. Raisa and Ivan were still on the platform, moving towards the exit with excruciating slowness. Since the agent was staring out the window he’d see them as soon as the train began to move. Raisa edged closer to the exit, queuing patiently. She was in no hurry, she had no reason to be, unaware that both her life and Leo’s were in danger unless she moved out of sight. The train began to roll forward. Their carriage was almost in line with the exit. The agent would see Raisa for sure — he’d know that Leo had deliberately failed.
The train picked up speed — it was parallel to the exit. Raisa was standing in plain view. Leo felt the blood rush from his stomach. He slowly turned his head to see the agent’s reaction. A sturdy middle-aged man and his sturdy middle-aged wife were standing in the aisle, blocking any view the agent might have of the platform. The train rattled into the tunnel. He hadn’t seen Raisa at the exit. He didn’t know Raisa was no longer on the train. Barely able to conceal his relief, Leo resumed his pantomime of staring into the adjoining carriage.
At Teatral’naya station, Leo waited for as long as possible before getting off the train, acting as though he was still following his wife, as though she was heading home. He moved towards the exit. Glancing back he saw that the agent had also disembarked and was trying to catch up some of the ground between them. Leo pressed forward.
The passage funnelled out into a thoroughfare with access either to the different lines or to the street-level exit. He had to lose this tail without appearing to do so. The tunnel to the right would take him to trains travelling east on the Arbatsko — Pokrovskaya line, the route home. Leo turned right. Much depended upon the arrival of the next train. If he could get far enough ahead then he might be able to board the train before the agent caught up and realized Raisa wasn’t on the platform.
Now in the tunnel which led to the platform he was faced with crowds of people in front of him. Suddenly he heard the sound of an approaching train, pulling into the platform. There was no way he could reach it in time, not with all these people in front of him. He reached into his jacket pocket, taking out his State Security identity card and tapping it on the shoulder of the man in front of him. As though scalded, the man stepped aside, the woman stepped aside, the crowd parted. With a clear path he was able to hurry forward. The train was there, its doors open, ready to go. He put his card away and boarded. He turned to see how close his tail was. If the man managed to catch up and board this train, the game was up.
The people who’d moved out of the way had closed ranks. The agent was stuck behind them, resorting to less subtle methods, pushing and shoving people out the way. He was catching up. Why weren’t the doors closing? The agent was now at the platform, only metres away. The doors began to close. His hand darted out, grabbing the side of the door. But the mechanism wouldn’t be pulled back and the man — who Leo saw closely for the first time — had no choice but to let go. Maintaining an air of casual indifference Leo tried not to react, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the agent was left behind. In the darkness of the tunnel Leo took off his sweat-sodden hat.
Same Day
The elevator came to a stop on the fifth floor, the top floor, the doors opened and Leo stepped out into the narrow corridor. The hallway smelt of cooking. It was seven in the evening, the time at which many families ate uzhin, the last meal of the day. As he walked past the apartments he could hear the sound of dinner preparations through the thin plywood front doors. The closer he got to his parents’ apartment the more tired he felt. He’d spent several hours criss-crossing the city. After losing the agent following him at Teatral’naya station he’d returned home, to apartment 124, turning on the lights and radio, drawing the curtains — a necessary precaution even though they were on the fourteenth floor. He’d left again, taking a deliberately circuitous route to the metro and travelling back into the city. He hadn’t changed his clothes and he regretted not doing so. They’d become unpleasant; his shirt, drenched with sweat, had dried and stuck to his back. He was sure it stank although he couldn’t smell it himself. He brushed these concerns aside. His parents wouldn’t care. They’d be too distracted by the fact he was asking their advice; something he hadn’t done in a long time.
The balance of their relationship had shifted — he now helped them far more than they helped him. Leo liked it that way. He enjoyed the feeling of being able to secure them easier jobs at their places of work. With nothing more than a polite enquiry his father had become a foreman at the munitions factory, taken off the assembly line, while his mother, who spent her days stitching parachutes, had been given a similar rise in status. He’d improved their access to food — no longer did they have to queue for several hours for basics such as bread and buckwheat; instead they were given access to the spetztorgi, the special shops not intended for the general public. In these restricted shops there were exotic delights such as fresh fish, saffron and even slabs of real dark chocolate, instead of the synthetic kind which substituted cocoa with a blend of rye, barley, wheat and peas. If his parents had trouble with a quarrelsome neighbour, that neighbour never remained quarrelsome for long. There was no violence involved, no crude threats, just a hint that they were dealing with a family better connected than their own.
This apartment, the apartment he’d managed to have them allocated, was in a pleasant residential area in the north of the city — a low-rise block where each apartment could boast of private washroom facilities and its own small balcony overlooking a small stretch of grass and a quiet road. They shared it with no one: extraordinary in this city. After fifty years of hardship they finally enjoyed a privileged life, a fact his parents keenly appreciated. They’d become addicted to comfort. And it all hung by the thread of Leo’s career.
Leo knocked on the door. When his mother, Anna, opened the door she seemed surprised. That surprise, which rendered her briefly speechless, melted away. She stepped forward, hugging her son, speaking excitedly.
— Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We heard you wereill. We came over to see you but you were asleep. Raisa let us in. We looked in on you, I even held your hand but what could we do? You needed your rest. You were sleeping like a child.
— Raisa told me you came round. Thank you for the fruit — the oranges and the lemons.
— We didn’t bring any fruit. At least I don’t think we did. I’m getting old. Maybe we did!
Having heard the conversation his father, Stepan, appeared from the kitchen, gently nudging past his wife. She’d gained a little weight recently. They’d both gained a little weight. They looked well.
Stepan embraced his son.
— Are you better?
— Yes, much.
— That’s good. We were worried about you.
— How’s your back?
— It hasn’t hurt for while now. One of the benefits of an administrative job, all I do is oversee other people’s hard work. I walk around with a pen and a clipboard.
— Enough with the guilt. You’ve done your time.
— Perhaps, but people look at you differently when you’re no longer one of them. My friends are not quite so friendly any more. If someone is late, I’m the one who has to report them. Thankfully no one has been late so far.
Leo rolled these words around his head.
— What would you do if they were late? Would you report them?
— I just keep telling them every evening, don’t be late.
No, in other words, his father would not report them. He’d probably already overlooked a couple of cases. Right now wasn’t the time to warn him, but that kind of generosity was liable to be found out.
In the kitchen a head of cabbage was bubbling in a copper pot of water. His parents were in the middle of preparing golubsty and Leo told them to carry on, they could talk in the kitchen. He stood back and watched as his father mixed together mince (fresh meat, not dried, possible only because of Leo’s job), fresh grated carrots (once again possible only because of him) and cooked rice. His mother set about peeling the colour-drained leaves from the cooked cabbage head. His parents knew something was wrong and waited, without prompting, for Leo to begin. He was glad they were busy with the food.
— We’ve never spoken much about my work. That’s for the best. There have been times when I’ve found my job difficult. I’ve done things of which I’m not proud but which were always necessary.
Leo paused, trying to work out how best to proceed. He asked:
— Have any of your acquaintances been arrested?
The question was awkward, Leo appreciated that. Stepan and Anna glanced at each other before carrying on with the food, no doubt glad to have something to do. Anna shrugged.
— Everyone knows someone who’s been arrested. But we don’t question it. I say to myself: you officers are the ones with the evidence. I know only what I see of people and it is very easy to appear to be nice and normal and loyal. It is your job to see past that. You know what’s best for this country. It is not for people like us to judge.
Leo nodded, adding.
— This country has many enemies. Our Revolution is hated around the world. We must protect it. Unfortunately even from ourselves.
He paused. He hadn’t come here to repeat State rhetoric. His parents stopped working, turning to face their son, their fingers sticky with oils from the mince.
— Yesterday I was asked to denounce Raisa. My superior officers believe she’s a traitor. They believe she’s a spy working for a foreign agency. I’ve been ordered to investigate.
A single drop of oil dripped from Stepan’s finger onto the floor. He stared at the drop of grease and then asked:
— Is she a traitor?
— Father, she’s a schoolteacher. She works. She comes home. She works. She comes home.
— Then tell them that. Is there any evidence? Why do they even think such a thing?
— There’s the confession of an executed spy. He named her. He claimed he’d worked with her. But I know that confession is a lie. I know that the spy was in reality nothing more than a vet. We made a mistake in arresting him. I believe his confession to be the fabrication of another officer trying to implicate me. I know my wife is innocent. The whole thing is an act of revenge.
Stepan wiped his hands clean on Anna’s apron.
— Tell them the truth. Make them listen. Expose this officer. You are in a position of authority.
— This confession, whether fabricated or not, has been accepted as the truth. It’s an official document and her name is on it. If I defend Raisa I’m contesting the validity of a State document. If they admit one is flawed then they admit all of them are. They cannot go back. The repercussions would be enormous. It would mean all confessions were up for question.
— Can you not say that this spy — this vet — was mistaken?
— Yes. That is what I intend to do. But if I make a case and they don’t believe me then not only will they arrest her they will arrest me too. If she is guilty and I’ve claimed she’s innocent then I am guilty too. That isn’t all. I know how these matters play out. There’s a very strong chance that they will arrest both of you. Part of the judicial code targets any family members of a convicted criminal. We’re guilty by association.
— And if you denounce her?
— I don’t know.
— Yes you do.
— We’ll survive. She won’t.
The water was still bubbling on the stove. At last Stepan spoke.
— You’re here because you’re unsure what to do. You’re here because you’re a good man and you want us to tell you to do the right thing, the decent thing. You want us to give you the right advice. Which would be to tell them that they’re wrong, to tell them that Raisa is innocent. And to brave the consequences that come from that.
— Yes.
Stepan nodded, looking at Anna. After a moment he added:
— But I can’t give you that advice. And I’m not sure you believed I would give you that advice. How can I? The truth is I want my wife to live. I want my son to live. And I want to live. I would do whatever it takes to ensure that. As I understand the situation, it is one life for three. I’m sorry. I know that you expected more of me. But we’re old, Leo. We wouldn’t survive the Gulags. We’d be separated. We’d die alone.
— And if you were young what your advice be then?
Stepan nodded.
— You’re right. My advice would be the same. But don’t be angry with me. What did you expect when you came here? Did you expect us to say, fine, we don’t mind dying? And what purpose would our deaths serve? Would your wife be saved? Would you live happily together? If that had been the case I would gladly have given up my life for the two of you. But that isn’t what would happen. All that would happen is that we’d die — all of us, all four of us — but you’d die knowing that you’d done the right thing.
Leo looked at his mother. Her face was as pale as the lank cabbage leaves she held in her hand. She was quite calm. She didn’t contradict Stepan, asking instead:
— When do you have to decide?
— I have two days to gather evidence. Then I must report back.
His parents continued with the preparation of dinner, wrapping mince in the cabbage leaves, laying them side by side in a baking tray like a row of thick, dismembered thumbs. No one spoke until the tray was full. Stepan asked:
— You’ll eat with us?
Following his mother into the living room, Leo saw that there were already three place settings.
— You’re expecting a guest?
— We’re expecting Raisa.
— My wife?
— She’s coming for dinner. When you knocked on the door we thought you were her.
Anna laid a fourth plate on the table, explaining.
— She comes almost every week. She didn’t want you to know how lonely she finds it, eating with only the radio for company. We’ve become very fond of her.
It was true that Leo was never home from work at seven. A culture of long working days had been fostered by Stalin, an insomniac, who would take no more than four hours of sleep a night. Leo had heard that no one in the Politburo was permitted to leave until the lights of Stalin’s study were turned off, normally some time past midnight. Though this rule didn’t apply exactly to the Lubyanka, similar levels of dedication were expected. Few officers worked anything less than ten-hour days, even if several of those hours were spent doing nothing at all.
There was a knock. Stepan opened the door, allowing Raisa into the hallway. She was as surprised as his parents to see Leo. Stepan explained:
— He was working nearby. For once we can eat together as a family.
She undid her jacket, which Stepan took from her. She stepped forward, close to Leo, looking him up and down.
— Whose clothes are these?
Leo glanced at the trousers, the shirt — these dead men’s clothes.
— I borrowed them — from work.
Raisa leaned closer, whispering in Leo’s ear.
— The shirt smells.
Leo moved towards the bathroom. At the door, he glanced back, watching as Raisa helped his parents with the table.
Leo had grown up without running hot water. His parents had shared their old apartment with his father’s uncle and his family. There had been only two bedrooms, one bedroom for each family. The apartment had no inside toilet or bathroom, the occupants of the building had to use outdoor facilities which were without hot water. In the morning the queues were long and in the winter, snow would fall on them while they waited. A private sink full of hot water would’ve been an impossible luxury, a dream. Leo stripped off the shirt, washing himself. Finished, he opened the door, asking his father if he could borrow a shirt. Though his father’s body was work-worn — stooped and shaped by the assembly line as surely as the tank shells that had been shaped by him — he was of a roughly similar frame to his son, a strong build with broad, muscular shoulders. The shirt was a close enough fit.
Changed, Leo sat down to eat. While the golubsty finished baking in the oven, they had zakuski, plates of pickles, mushroom salad and for each of them, a thin slice of veal tongue cooked with marjoram, left to cool in gelatine and served with horseradish. It was an exceptionally generous spread. Leo couldn’t help but stare at it, calculating the cost of each dish. Whose death had paid for that marjoram? Had that slice of tongue been bought with Anatoly Brodsky’s life? Feeling sick, he remarked:
— I can see why you come here every week.
Raisa smiled.
— Yes. They spoil me. I tell them kasha would be fine but—
Stepan interjected:
— It’s an excuse to spoil ourselves.
Trying to sound casual, Leo asked his wife:
— You come here straight after work?
— That’s right.
That was a lie. She’d gone somewhere with Ivan first. But before Leo could consider it further, Raisa corrected herself.
— That’s not true. Normally I come here straight after work. But tonight I had an appointment, which is why I’m a little late.
— An appointment?
— With the doctor.
Raisa began to smile.
— I’d meant to tell you when we were on our own but since it has come up…
— Tell me what?
Anna stood up.
— Would you like us to leave?
Leo gestured for his mother to be seated.
— Please. We’re family. No secrets.
— I’m pregnant.
20 February
Leo couldn’t sleep. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow breathing of his wife, her back pressed against his side not out of any deliberate expression of intimacy but through chance movements. She was an unsettled sleeper. Was that enough reason to denounce her? He knew it was. He knew how it could be written up:
Unable to rest easy, troubled by her dreams: my wife is clearly tormented by some secret.
He could pass responsibility for the investigation to another person. He could kid himself that he was deferring judgement. He was too close, too involved. But any such investigation would only come to one conclusion. The case had been opened. No one else would position against a presumption of guilt.
Leo got out of bed and stood by the living-room window, which had a view not of the city but of the apartment block opposite. A wall of windows with only three lights on, three out of a thousand or so, and he wondered what worries were troubling the occupants, what was keeping them from sleeping. He felt an odd kind of companionship with those three squares of pale yellow light. It was four in the morning, arresting hour — the best time to seize a person, to grab them from their sleep. They were vulnerable, disorientated. Unguarded comments made as officers swarmed into their homes were often used against suspects in their interrogations. It was not easy to be prudent when your wife was being dragged across the floor by her hair. How many times had Leo smashed a door open with the sole of his boot? How many times had he watched as a married couple were pulled from their bed, flashlights shone in their eyes and up their nightclothes? How many times had he heard the sound of an officer laughing at the sight of someone’s genitals? How many people had he pulled from their beds? How many apartments had he torn apart? And what of the children he’d held back as the parents were taken away? He couldn’t remember. He’d blocked it out: the names, the faces. An indistinct memory served him well. Had he cultivated it? Had he taken amphetamines not to work longer hours but to erode the memories of that work?
There was a joke, popular among officers, who could tell it with impunity. A man and his wife were asleep in bed when they were woken by a sharp knock on the door. Fearing the worst they got up, kissed each other goodbye.
I love you, wife.
I love you, husband.
Having said their goodbyes they opened the front door. Standing before them was a frantic neighbour, a corridor full of smoke and flames as high as the ceiling. The man and his wife smiled with relief and thanked God: it was just the building on fire. Leo had heard variations on this joke. Instead of a fire there were armed bandits, instead of armed bandits there was a doctor with terrible news. In the past he’d laughed, confident that it would never happen to him.
His wife was pregnant. Did that fact change anything? It might change the attitude of his superiors to Raisa. They’d never liked her. She’d never given Leo any children. In these times it was expected, demanded that couples have children. After the millions who’d died fighting children were a social obligation. Why had Raisa not become pregnant? The question had dogged their marriage. The only conclusion was that there was something wrong with her. The pressure had been cranked up recently: questions asked with greater frequency. Raisa was seeing a doctor regularly in order to address the issue. Their sexual relations were pragmatic, motivated by external pressures. The irony didn’t escape Leo that just as his superiors got what they wanted — Raisa pregnant — they wanted her dead. Perhaps he could mention that she was pregnant? He dismissed the idea. A traitor was traitor, there were no exonerating circumstances.
Leo showered. The water was cold. He got changed and made a breakfast of oatmeal. He had no desire to eat and watched it harden in the bowl. Raisa entered the kitchen, sat down, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. He got up. Neither of them spoke as he waited for the oatmeal to warm up. He put a bowl before her. She said nothing. He made a glass of weak tea, placed it on the table alongside the jar of jam.
— I’ll try to be home a little earlier.
— You don’t have to change your routine for me.
— I’ll try anyway.
— Leo, you don’t have to change your routine for me.
Leo shut the front door. It was dawn. From the edge of the walkway he could see people waiting for the tramcar hundreds of metres down below. He made his way to the elevator. Once it had arrived he pressed the button for the top floor. On the thirtieth floor, the top floor, he stepped out and walked down the passage way to the service door at the end marked NO ENTRY. The lock had been smashed a long time ago. It led to a flight of stairs that in turn led to the roof. He’d been here before, when they’d first moved in. Facing west you could see the city. Facing east you could see the edge of the countryside where Moscow broke apart and gave way to snow-covered fields. Four years ago, admiring this view, he’d thought himself one of the luckiest men alive. He was a hero — he had the newspaper clipping to prove it. He had a powerful job, a beautiful wife. His faith in the State had been unquestioning. Did he miss that feeling — complete, unswerving confidence? Yes, he did.
He took the elevator down to the fourteenth floor, returning to his apartment. Raisa had gone to work. Her breakfast bowl sat unwashed in the kitchen. He took off his jacket and boots, warmed his hands, ready to begin his search.
Leo had organized and overseen the searches of many houses, apartments and offices. They were treated competitively by those who worked in the MGB. Stories were swapped about the extraordinary thoroughness which officers demonstrated in order to prove their dedication. Precious objects were smashed, portraits and works of art cut from the frames, books ripped apart, entire walls knocked down. Even though this was his home and these were his things Leo proposed to treat the search no differently. He ripped off the bed linen, pillowcases and sheets, turning the mattress upside down and feeling it carefully, every square inch, like a blind man reading Braille. Paper documents could be stitched into a mattress becoming invisible to the eye. The only way to locate these secret stashes was by touch. Finding nothing, he moved to the shelves. He went through every book checking if anything had been placed inside them. He found one hundred roubles, just under a week’s wages. He looked at the money wondering what it could mean until remembering that the book belonged to him and this money was his own, a secret stash. Another agent might have declared it proof that the owner was a speculator. Leo put the money back. He opened the drawers, looking down at Raisa’s neatly folded clothes. He picked up each garment, feeling and shaking it before dropping it in a heap on the floor. When all the drawers were emptied he checked the backs and sides. Finding nothing, he turned, studying the room. He pressed himself against the walls, running his fingers along them to see if there was the outline of a safe or a hollow. He took down the framed newspaper clipping, the photo of himself beside the burning panzer tank. It was peculiar to think of that moment, surrounded by death, as happier times. He took the frame apart. The slip of newspaper floated to the floor. Putting the clipping and the frame back together, he turned the bed on its side, leaning it against the wall. He got onto his knees. The floorboards were securely screwed down. He retrieved a screwdriver from the kitchen and took up every floorboard. Underneath there was nothing but dust and pipes.
He went into the kitchen, washed the dirt off his hands. There was, at last, warm water. He spent a leisurely amount of time lathering the small bar of soap: scrubbing his skin even after all the dirt had gone. What was he trying to wash off his hands? The betrayal, no — he had no interest in metaphors. He was washing his hands because they were dirty. He was searching his apartment because it had to be done. He mustn’t over-think.
There was a knock on the front door. He rinsed his hands, which were covered from wrist to elbow in cream-coloured soap-spuds. There was a second knock. With water dripping from his arms he moved into the hallway, calling out:
— Who is it?
— It’s Vasili.
Leo closed his eyes, feeling his heart rate quicken and trying to control the surge of anger. Vasili knocked again. Leo stepped forward, opened the door. Vasili was accompanied by two men. The first was a young officer Leo didn’t recognize. He had soft features and paper-pale skin. He stared at Leo with expressionless eyes, like two glass marbles pushed into a ball of dough. The second officer was Fyodor Andreev. Vasili had selected these men carefully. The man with the pale skin was his protection, no doubt strong, a good shot or quick with a knife. He’d brought Fyodor along for spite.
— What is it?
— We’re here to help. Major Kuzmin sent us.
— Thank you, but I have the investigation under control.
— I’m sure you do. We’re here to assist.
— Thank you, but that’s not necessary.
— Come on, Leo. We’ve travelled a long way. And it’s cold out here.
Leo stepped aside, letting them in.
None of the three men took off their boots, which were encrusted with ice, chunks of which dropped from their soles, melting into the carpet. Leo shut the door, aware that Vasili was here to bait him. He wanted Leo to lose his temper. He wanted an argument, an ill-considered comment, anything to strengthen his case.
Leo offered his guests tea or vodka if they preferred. Vasili’s love drink was well known, but it was considered the most minor of vices if a vice at all. He dismissed Leo’s offer with a shake of his head and glanced into the bedroom.
— What have you found?
Without waiting for a reply Vasili entered the room, staring at the upturned mattress.
— You’ve not even cut it open.
He leant down, drawing his knife, ready to slice open the mattress. Leo caught hold of his hand.
— There’s a way to feel for items stitched into the material. You don’t have to cut it.
— So you’re going to put the place back together again?
— That’s right.
— You still think your wife is innocent?
— I’ve found nothing to suggest otherwise.
— May I give you some advice? Find another wife. Raisa is beautiful. But there are many beautiful women. Maybe you’d be better off with one who wasn’t quite so beautiful.
Vasili reached into his pocket, pulling out a set of folded photographs. He offered them to Leo. They were photographs taken of Raisa outside the school with Ivan, the literature teacher.
— She’s fucking him, Leo. She’s a traitor to you and the State.
— These were taken at the school. They’re both teachers. Of course it’s possible to take photographs of them together. It proves nothing.
— Do you know his name?
— Ivan, I think.
— We’ve had an eye on him for some time.
— We have our eye on lots of people.
— Perhaps you’re a friend of his also?
— I’ve never met him. I’ve never spoken to him.
Seeing the heap of clothes on the floor, Vasili bent down and picked up a pair of Raisa’s underpants. He rubbed them between his fingers, crumpling them into a ball, placing them under his nose and never taking his eyes off Leo. Instead of feeling anger at this provocation Leo contemplated his deputy in a way that he’d never bothered to before. Who exactly was this man who hated him so much? Was he motivated by professional jealousy or by raw ambition? Watching him now, sniffing Raisa’s clothes, Leo realized there was something personal about this hatred.
— May I take a look around the rest of your apartment?
Fearing a trap of some kind, Leo replied:
— I’ll come with you.
— No, I’d prefer to do it by myself.
Leo nodded. Vasili moved off.
Hardly able to breathe, his throat constricted with anger, Leo stared at the upturned bed. He was surprised by a soft voice beside him. It was Fyodor.
— You’d do all this. Search through your wife’s clothes, turn your bed upside down, rip up your own floorboards — pull your own life apart.
— We should all be prepared to submit to such searches. Generalissimo Stalin—
— I’ve heard this too. Our Leader said even his apartment could be searched if need be.
— Not only can we all be investigated, we must all be investigated.
— And yet you would not investigate the death of my son? You would investigate your wife, yourself, your friends, your neighbours but you would not take a look at his body? You would not spare an hour to see how his stomach was cut open, and how he died with dirt shoved in his mouth?
Fyodor was calm: his voice soft — his anger was no longer raw. It had turned to ice. He could speak in this fashion to Leo — openly, frankly — because he knew Leo was no longer a threat.
— Fyodor, you didn’t see his body either.
— I spoke to the old man who found his body. He told me what he saw. I saw in the old man’s eyes his shock. I spoke to the eyewitness, the woman you scared away. A man was holding my son’s hand, leading him along the tracks. She saw that man’s face. She could describe him. But no one wants her to speak. And now she’s too afraid to. My boy was murdered, Leo. The militia made all the witnesses change their statements. This I expected. But you were my friend. And you came to my home and instructed my family to keep our mouths shut. You threatened a grieving family. You read us a fiction and told us to commit those lies to our hearts. Instead of looking for the person who killed my son, you placed the funeral under scrutiny instead.
— Fyodor, I was trying to help you.
— I believe you. You were telling us the way to survive.
— Yes.
— And in some ways I’m grateful. Otherwise, the man who murdered my son would also have murdered me and my family. You saved us. That is why I’m here, not to gloat, but to return the favour. Vasili is right. You must sacrifice your wife. Don’t bother looking for any evidence. Denounce her and you’ll survive. Raisa is a spy, it’s been decided. I’ve read Anatoly Brodsky’s confession. It’s written in the same black ink as my son’s incident report.
No, Fyodor was wrong. He was angry. Leo reminded himself that he had a simple objective — to investigate his wife and report his findings. His wife was innocent.
— I’m convinced the traitor’s remarks concerning my wife were motivated by revenge and nothing more. So far my investigation supports that.
Vasili had re-entered the room. It was impossible to tell how much of their conversation he’d heard. He answered:
— Except that the other six names he listed have all been arrested. And all six have already confessed. Anatoly Brodsky’s information has proved invaluable.
— Then I’m pleased I was the one who apprehended him.
— Your wife was named by a convicted spy.
— I’ve read his confession and Raisa’s name is the last on the list.
— The names weren’t given in order of importance.
— I believe he added it out of spite. I believe he wanted to hurt me personally. It is unlikely to fool any one, an obvious, desperate trick. You’re welcome to help with my search — if that is why you’ve come round. As you can see…
Leo gestured at the ripped-up floorboards.
— I’ve been thorough.
— Give her up, Leo. You need to be realistic. On the one hand you have your career, your parents — on the other hand you have a traitor and a slut.
Leo glanced at Fyodor. His face showed no sign of pleasure, no malicious relish. Vasili continued:
— You know she’s a slut. That is why you had her followed before.
Leo’s anger was displaced by shock. They’d known. They’d known all along.
— Did you think that was a secret? We all know. Denounce her, Leo. End this. End the doubt; end the niggling questions at the back of your mind. Give her up. We’ll go drinking together afterwards. By the end of the night you’ll have another woman.
— I’ll report my findings tomorrow. If Raisa is a traitor, I’ll say so. If she’s not, I’ll say so.
— Then I wish you luck, comrade. If you survive this scandal you’ll one day be running the MGB. I’m sure of it. And it would be an honour to work under you.
At the front door, Vasili turned:
— Remember what I said. Your life and the lives of your parents are being weighed against hers. It’s not a difficult decision.
Leo shut the door.
Listening to them walk away, he noticed his hands were shaking. He returned to the bedroom, surveying the mess. He replaced all the floorboards, screwing them back down. He made the bed, carefully straightening all the sheets and then crumpling them slightly, in imitation of how he’d found them. He replaced all Raisa’s clothes, folding and stacking them, conscious that he couldn’t remember the exact order in which he’d pulled them out. An approximation would have to do.
As he lifted a cotton shirt a small object fell out, hitting his foot and rolling onto the floor. Leo bent down and picked it up. It was a copper rouble coin. He tossed it onto the top of his bedside cabinet. On impact the coin split in two, the separate halves rolling off opposite sides of the cabinet. Perplexed, he approached the cabinet. He knelt down and retrieved the two halves. The inside of one had been hollowed out. When slotted together it looked like an ordinary coin. Leo had seen one of these before. It was a device for smuggling microfilm.
21 February
Present at Leo’s deposition were Major Kuzmin, Vasili Nikitin and Timur Raphaelovich — the officer who’d taken Leo’s place during Anatoly Brodsky’s interrogation. Leo knew him only in passing: an ambitious man of few words and much credibility. The discovery that Raphaelovich was prepared to vouch for everything in the confession including the reference to Raisa was devastating. This man was no lackey of Vasili. Raphaelovich didn’t respect or fear him. Leo wondered whether Vasili could’ve inserted Raisa’s name into the confession. He had no sway over Raphaelovich, no leverage, and according to their rank he would’ve been the subordinate officer during the interrogation. For the past two days Leo had been working under the assumption this had been an act of revenge by Vasili. He’d been mistaken. Vasili wasn’t behind this. The only person who could’ve organized the fabrication of such a confession backed up with such a high-ranking witness was Major Kuzmin.
It was a set-up, orchestrated by none other than his mentor, the man who’d taken Leo under his wing. Leo had ignored his advice regarding Anatoly Brodsky and now he was being taught a lesson. What had Kuzmin told him?
Sentimentality can blind a man.
This was a test, an exercise. The issue under scrutiny here was Leo’s suitability as an officer: it had nothing to do with Raisa, nothing at all. Why appoint the husband of a suspect to investigate his wife unless the primary concern was how the husband would conduct himself during that investigation? Hadn’t Leo been the one who’d been followed? Hadn’t Vasili come to check whether he was searching the apartment properly? He wasn’t interested in the contents of the apartment: he was interested in Leo’s approach. It all made sense. Vasili had goaded him yesterday, told him to denounce his wife, precisely because he hoped that Leo would do exactly the opposite and stand up for her. He didn’t want Leo to denounce Raisa. He didn’t want him to pass this test — he wanted him to put his private life above the Party. It was a trick. All he had to do was show Major Kuzmin that he was willing to denounce his wife, prove that his loyalties were absolutely with the MGB, prove his faith was unquestioning, prove that his heart could be cruel — if he did this then they’d all be safe: Raisa, his unborn child, his parents. His future with the MGB would be assured and Vasili would be an irrelevance.
Yet wasn’t this a presumption? What if the traitor was, as he’d confessed to being, a traitor? What if he’d somehow been working with Raisa? Perhaps he’d spoken the truth. Why was Leo so sure that this man was innocent? Why was he so sure his wife was innocent? After all, why did she befriend a dissident literature teacher? What was that coin doing in their apartment? Hadn’t the six other names listed in the confession been arrested and all been successfully interrogated? The list was proven and Raisa was on the list. Yes, she was a spy and here in his pocket was the copper coin, the evidence to prove it. He could place the coin on the desk and recommend that both she and Ivan Zhukov be taken in for questioning. He’d been played a fool. Vasili was right: she was a traitor. She was pregnant with another man’s child. Hadn’t he always known that she’d been unfaithful to him? She didn’t love him. He was sure of that. Why risk everything for her — a woman who was cold to him, a woman who at best tolerated him? She was a threat to everything he’d worked for, everything he’d won for his parents and for himself. She was a threat to the country, a country Leo had fought to defend.
It was quite clear: if Leo said she was guilty then this would end well for both him and his parents. That was guaranteed. It was the only safe thing to do. If this was a test of Leo’s character then Raisa would also be spared. And she would never need to know. If she was a spy then these men already had the evidence and were waiting to see if Leo was working with her. If she was a spy then he should denounce her, she deserved to die. The only course of action was to denounce his wife.
Major Kuzmin began the proceedings.
— Leo Stepanovich, we have reason to believe your wife is working for foreign agencies. You personally are not suspected of any crimes. This is the reason we’ve asked you to investigate the allegations. Please tell us what you have found.
Leo had the confirmation he was looking for. Major Kuzmin’s offer was clear. If he denounced his wife he’d have their continued confidence. What had Vasili said?
If you survive this scandal you’ll one day be running the MGB. I’m sure of it.
Promotion was a sentence away.
The room was silent. Major Kuzmin leaned forward.
— Leo?
Leo stood up, straightened the jacket of his uniform.
— My wife is innocent.