Tom Rob Smith_Leo Demidov_01

by Child 44

  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 milliliters 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.

  —Okay. 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 his 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 Vladislavovna. Dora Andreyeva. Arkadi Maslow. Matthias Rakosi.

  Vasili reached for his notepad, scribbling down the names, asking:

  —Recognize any of those names?

  Yes, Leo recognized these names: Anna Vladislavovna: 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

  DOCTOR ZARUBIN PUT ON his mink fur-lined hat, picked up his leather carry-bag, and nudged his way off the crowded tramcar, halfheartedly 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 gray winter skyline. On the opposite side of the road stretching many hundreds of meters above him and above everything else were 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 marveled 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-story properties. Those were gone, flattened, smashed to brick dust, and in their place stood perfectly formed, government-designed and -owned apartments, each painted gray and stacked up and up and side by side. Nowhere had he seen the exact 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 has 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, 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 escaping 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 the doctor’s 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, remarkably 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 both 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 conquests 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 leaned 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 gray 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 absentminded.

  —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—the crease of her back. 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 toward 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, flavored 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 unimaginably hard work. The hallucinogen 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 smelled soap on her hands. If he reported that Leo wasn’t sick, that he was faking his leave of absence, then this man would almost certainly be arrested and interrogated. With all the other doubts surrounding his behavior 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 okay?

  —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.

  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 toward 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 toward 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 carry-case, 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 which hung on 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.