Tom Rob Smith_Leo Demidov_01

by Child 44

  —I appreciate that.

  —You’ve been reassigned. It was impossible to keep you in the MGB with so many unanswered questions over your head. You’re going to join the militia. Not as a syshchik, not as a detective, but as the lowest entry position, an uchastkovyy. You’ll be the man who cleans the holding cells, the man who takes notes—the man who does as he’s told. You need to get used to taking orders if you’re to survive.

  Leo understood Vasili’s disappointment. This punishment—employed exile in the local police force—was light. Considering the severity of the allegations they could’ve faced twenty-five-year terms mining gold in Kolyma where temperatures were fifty below freezing and prisoners’ hands were deformed by frostbite and life expectancy was three months. They’d escaped with not only their lives but their freedom. Leo didn’t imagine that Major Kuzmin had done it out of sentimentality. The truth was that he would’ve embarrassed himself by prosecuting his protégé. In a time of political instability it was far better, far shrewder to simply send him away under the guise of a relocation. Kuzmin didn’t want his judgment scrutinized; after all, if Leo was a spy why had Kuzmin favored him with promotions? No, those questions were awkward. It was easier and safer just to brush him under the corner of some rug. Understanding that any sign of relief would aggravate Vasili, Leo did his best to look crestfallen:

  —I’ll do my duty wherever I’m needed.

  Vasili stepped forward, pressing the tickets and paperwork into Leo’s hands. Leo took the documents and moved toward the train.

  Raisa stepped up onto the carriage. As she did Vasili called out:

  —It must have been difficult to hear that your husband had followed you. And not just once. I’m sure he’d told you about that. He followed you twice. On the other occasion it wasn’t State business. He didn’t think you were a spy. He thought you were a slut. You must forgive him that. Everyone has their doubts. And you are pretty. Personally, I don’t think you’re worth giving up everything for. I suspect when your husband comes to realize what a shithole we’ve sent him to he’ll grow to hate you. Me, I would’ve kept the apartment and had you shot as a traitor. All I can suppose is that you must be some great fuck.

  Raisa wondered at this man’s obsession with her husband. But she remained silent: a retort might cost them their lives. Ignoring the fact that one of her shoelaces had come undone, she picked up her suitcase and opened the carriage door.

  Leo followed her, careful not to turn around. There was a chance, if he saw Vasili’s smirk, that he might not be able to control himself.

  RAISA STARED OUT the window as the train departed the station.

  There were no seats available and they were forced to stand, cramped together. Neither of them spoke for some time, watching the city roll past. Finally Leo said:

  —I’m sorry.

  —I’m sure he was lying. He would’ve said anything to get under your skin.

  —He was telling the truth. I had you followed. And it had nothing to do with my work. I thought . . .

  —That I was sleeping with someone else?

  —There was a time when you wouldn’t talk to me. You wouldn’t touch me. You wouldn’t sleep with me. We were strangers. And I couldn’t understand why.

  —You can’t marry an MGB officer and not expect to be followed. But tell me, Leo, how could I be unfaithful? In practical terms, I’d be risking my life. We wouldn’t have argued about it. You’d have me arrested.

  —Is that what you think would happen?

  —You remember my friend Zoya, you met her once, I think?

  —Perhaps . . .

  —Yes, that’s right—you never remember anyone’s name, do you? I wonder why. Is that how you’re able to sleep at night, by blanking events from your mind?

  Raisa spoke quickly, calmly, and with an intensity Leo hadn’t heard before. She continued:

  —You did meet Zoya. She didn’t register, but then she wasn’t very important in Party terms. She was given a twenty-year sentence. They arrested her as she stepped out of a church, accusing her of anti- Stalinist prayers. Prayers, Leo—they convicted her on the basis of the thoughts in her head.

  —Why didn’t you tell me? I might’ve helped.

  Raisa shook her head. Leo asked:

  —You think I denounced her?

  —Would you even know? You can’t even remember who she is.

  Leo was taken aback: he and his wife had never spoken like this before, never spoken about anything other than the household chores, polite conversation—they’d never raised their voices, never had an argument.

  —Even if you didn’t denounce her, Leo, how could you have helped? When the men who arrested her were men like you—dedicated, devoted servants of the State? That same night you didn’t come home. And I realized you were probably arresting someone else’s best friend, someone else’s parents, someone else’s children. Tell me, how many people have you arrested? Do you have any idea? Say a number—fifty, two hundred, a thousand?

  —I refused to give them you.

  —They weren’t after me. They were after you. Arresting strangers, you were able to fool yourself that they might just be guilty. You could believe that what you were doing served some purpose. But that wasn’t enough for them. They wanted you to prove that you’d do whatever they asked even if you knew it in your heart to be wrong, even if you knew it to be meaningless. They wanted you to prove your blind obedience. I imagine wives are a useful test for that.

  —Maybe you’re right, but we’re free of that now. Do you understand how lucky we are to even get this second chance? I want us to start a new life, as a family.

  —Leo, it’s not as simple as that.

  Raisa paused, studying her husband carefully, as though they were meeting for the first time:

  —The night we ate dinner at your parents’ apartment I heard you talking through the front door. I was in the hallway. I heard the discussion about whether or not you should denounce me as a spy. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to die. So I went back down to the street and walked for a while, trying to collect my thoughts. I wondered—will he do it? Will he give me up? Your father made a convincing case.

  —My father was scared.

  —Three lives weighed against one? It’s hard to argue with those numbers. But what about three lives against two?

  —You’re not pregnant?

  —Would you have vouched for me if I wasn’t?

  —And you waited until now before telling me?

  —I was afraid you might change your mind.

  This was their relationship, stripped bare. Leo felt unsteady. The train he was standing on, the people near him, the cases, his clothes, the city outside—none of it felt real right now. He could trust none of it, not even the things he could see and touch and feel. Everything he’d believed in was a lie.

  —Raisa, have you ever loved me?

  A moment passed in silence, the question lingering like a bad smell, the two of them rocking with the motion of the train. Finally, instead of answering, Raisa knelt down and tied her shoelace.

  VOUALSK

  15 MARCH

  Varlam babinich was sitting cross-legged on a filthy concrete floor in the corner of an overcrowded dormitory, his back to the door, using his body to shield from view the objects arranged in front of him. He didn’t want the other boys to interfere as they had a tendency to if something caught their interest. He glanced around. The thirty or so boys in the room weren’t paying him any attention; most of them lay side by side on the eight piss-sodden beds they were forced to share. He watched two of them scratching the bug bites swelling up across each other’s backs. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to be pestered, he returned to the objects arranged in front of him, objects he’d collected over the years, all of them precious to him, including his most recent addition, stolen this morning—a four-month-old baby.

  Varlam was dimly aware that by taking the baby he’d done something wrong and that if he was c
aught he’d be in trouble, more trouble than he’d ever been in before. He was also aware that the baby wasn’t happy. It was crying. He wasn’t particularly worried about the noise since no one was going to notice another screaming child. As it happened he was less interested in the baby itself than in the yellow blanket it was wrapped in. Proud of his new possession, he positioned the baby at the centerpiece of his collection among a yellow tin, an old yellow shirt, a yellow-painted brick, a ripped portion of a poster with a yellow background, a yellow pencil, and a book with a soft yellow paper cover. In the summer he added to this collection wild yellow flowers which he picked from the forest. The flowers never lasted long and nothing made him sadder than watching their shades of yellow fade, the petals becoming lank and brown. He used to wonder:

  Where does the yellow go?

  He had no idea. But he hoped he’d go there too someday, maybe when he died. The color yellow was more important to him than anything or anybody. Yellow was the reason he’d ended up here, in Voualsk’s internat, a state-run facility for children with mental deficiencies.

  As a small boy he’d chased after the sun, certain that if he ran far enough he’d eventually catch up with it, snatch it from the sky, and carry it home. He’d run for almost five hours before being caught and brought back, screaming in anger at his quest being cut short. His parents, who’d beaten him in the hope that it would straighten out his peculiarities, finally accepted that their methods weren’t working and handed him over to the State, which had adopted more or less the same methods. For his first two years in the internat he’d been chained to a bedframe, like a farm dog chained to a tree. However, he was a strong child, with broad shoulders and a stubborn determination. Over months he’d managed to break the bedframe, pulling the chain loose and escaping. He’d ended up on the edge of town, chasing a yellow carriage of a moving train. Eventually he’d been returned to the internat suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. This time he’d been locked in a cupboard. But all that was a long time ago—the staff trusted him now. He was seventeen years old and smart enough to understand that he couldn’t run far enough to reach the sun or indeed climb high enough to pick it out of the sky. Instead, he concentrated on finding yellow closer to home, such as this baby which he’d stolen by reaching in through an open window. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry he might have tried to unwrap the blanket and leave the baby behind. But he’d panicked, afraid that he was going to get caught and so he’d taken them both. Now, staring down at the screaming infant, he noticed that the blanket made the baby’s skin appear faintly yellow. And he was glad that he’d stolen them both after all.

  OUTSIDE TWO CARS PULLED UP and six armed members of the Voualsk militia stepped out, led by General Nesterov, a middle-aged man with the broad, stocky build of a kolkhoz laborer. He gestured for his team to surround the premises while he and his deputy, a lieutenant, approached the entrance. Although the militia were not normally armed, today Nesterov had instructed his men to carry guns. They were to shoot to kill.

  The administrative office was open: a radio playing at a low volume, a game of cards abandoned on the table, a reek of alcohol hanging in the air. There were no members of staff to be seen. Nesterov and his lieutenant moved forward, entering a corridor. The smell of alcohol gave way to that of feces and sulfur. Sulfur was used to keep away bedbugs. The smell of feces needed no explanation. There was shit on the floor and on the walls. The dormitories they passed were overrun with young children, maybe forty to a room, wearing nothing more than a dirty shirt or a pair of dirty shorts but never, it seemed, both. They were sprawled on their beds, three or four layered across a thin, filthy mattress. Many weren’t moving—staring up at the ceiling. Nesterov wondered if some of them were dead. It was difficult to tell. The children on their feet ran forward, trying to grab the guns, touching their uniforms, starved of adult interaction. They were quickly encircled by clambering hands. Even though Nesterov had braced himself for terrible conditions, he found it difficult to comprehend how things could have gotten this bad. He intended to bring it up with the director of this establishment. However, that was for another time.

  Having searched the ground floor Nesterov made his way upstairs while his lieutenant tried to keep the pack of children from following, communicating with stern looks and gestures which only caused them to laugh as though this were a game. When he gently pushed the children back they immediately rushed forward, wanting to be pushed back again. Impatient, Nesterov remarked:

  —Leave them, let them be.

  They had no choice but to allow them to trail behind.

  The children in the rooms upstairs were older. Nesterov guessed that the dormitories were loosely arranged according to age. Their suspect was seventeen years old—the age limit at this institution. After which they were sent out into the most backbreaking, unappealing jobs available—jobs no sane man or woman would want, jobs where the life expectancy was thirty years. They were coming to the end of the corridor. There was only one dormitory left to search.

  With his back to the door, Varlam was preoccupied with stroking the baby’s blanket, wondering why the child wasn’t crying anymore. He prodded it with a dirty finger. Suddenly a voice cut across the room, causing his back to stiffen:

  —Varlam: stand up and turn around, very slowly.

  Varlam held his breath and closed his eyes as though this might make the voice disappear. It didn’t work:

  —I’m not going to tell you again. Stand up and turn around.

  Nesterov stepped forward, approaching Varlam’s position. He couldn’t see what the boy was sheltering. He couldn’t hear the sound of a baby crying. All the other boys in the dormitory were sitting upright, staring, fascinated. Without warning Varlam sprang to life, scooping something up in his arms, standing and turning round. He was holding the baby. It started crying. Nesterov was relieved: the child was alive at least. But not out of danger. Varlam was holding it tight against his chest, his arms wrapped around the baby’s fragile neck.

  Nesterov checked behind him. His deputy had remained by the door with the other curious children clustered around. He took aim at Varlam’s head, cocking his gun, ready to kill, waiting for the order. He had a clear line. But at best he was an average shot. At the sight of his gun some of the children began screaming, others laughing and banging the mattress. The situation was getting out of control. Varlam was beginning to panic. Nesterov holstered his weapon, raising his hands in an attempt to pacify Varlam, speaking over the din:

  —Give me the child.

  —I’m in so much trouble.

  —No you’re not. I can see the baby’s okay. I’m pleased with you. You’ve done a good job. You’ve looked after him. I’m here to congratulate you.

  —I did a good job?

  —Yes, you did.

  —Can I keep it?

  —I need to check that the baby’s okay, just to be sure. Then we’ll talk. Can I check on the child?

  Varlam knew they were angry and they were going to take the baby from him and lock him in a yellowless room. He pulled the baby closer, tighter, squeezing it so that the yellow blanket pressed up against his mouth. He stepped back toward the window, looking out at the militia cars parked in the street and the armed men surrounding the building:

  —I’m in so much trouble.

  Nesterov edged forward. There was no way he could extricate the baby from Varlam’s grip by force—it could be crushed in the struggle. He glanced at his lieutenant, who nodded, indicating that he’d lined up a shot: he was ready. Nesterov shook his head. The baby was too close to Varlam’s face. The risk of an accident was too great. There had to be another way:

  —Varlam, no one is going to hit you or hurt you. Give me the child and we’ll talk. No one will be angry. You have my word. I promise.

  Nesterov took another step closer, blocking his lieutenant’s shot. Nesterov glanced down at the collection of yellow items on the floor. He’d encountered Varlam from a previous incident wher
e a yellow dress had been stolen from a clothesline. It had not slipped his attention that the baby was wrapped in a yellow blanket:

  —If you give me the child, I’ll ask the mother if you can have the yellow blanket. I’m sure she’ll say yes. All I want is the baby.

  Hearing what seemed like a fair deal, Varlam relaxed. He stretched out his arms, offering the child. Nesterov sprang forward, snatching the child from his hands. He checked that the child seemed to be unharmed before passing it to his deputy:

  —Take it to the hospital.

  The lieutenant hurried out.

  As though nothing had happened, Varlam sat down with his back to the door, rearranging the items in his collection to fill the space created by the absent baby. The other children in the dormitory were quiet again. Nesterov knelt down beside him. Varlam asked:

  —When can I have the blanket?

  —You have to come with me first.

  Varlam continued rearranging his collection. Nesterov glanced at the yellow book. It was a military manual, a confidential document.

  —How did you get that?

  —I found it.

  —I’m going to have a look. Will you stay calm if I have a look?

  —Are your fingers clean?

  Nesterov noticed that Varlam’s fingers were filthy.

  —My fingers are clean.

  Nesterov picked it up, casually flicking through. There was something in the middle, pressed between the pages. He turned the book upside down and shook it. A thick lock of blonde hair fell to the floor. He picked it up, rubbing it between his fingers. Varlam blushed:

  —I’m in so much trouble.

  EIGHT HUNDRED KILOMETERS EAST OF MOSCOW

  16 MARCH

  Asked whether or not she loved him, Raisa had refused to answer. She’d just admitted to lying about being pregnant, so even if she’d said Yes, I love you, I’ve always loved you, Leo wouldn’t have believed her. She certainly wasn’t about to stare into his eyes and spell out some fanciful description. What was the point of the question anyway? It was as though he’d had some kind of epiphany, a revelation that their marriage wasn’t built on love and affection. If she’d answered truthfully—No, I’ve never loved you—all of a sudden he would’ve been the victim, the implication being that their marriage had been a trick played on him by her. She was the con artist who’d toyed with his gullible heart. Out of nowhere, he was a romantic. Perhaps it was the shock of losing his job. But since when had love been part of the arrangement? He’d never asked her about it before. He’d never said: