by Child 44
During their vacation his family had been staying in his mother’s apartment in the New Settlement built during one of the postwar accommodation programs with all the usual characteristics: constructed to fulfill a quota rather than to be lived in. They were already in a state of decay: they’d been in a state of decay before they were even finished. With no running water or central plumbing, they were similar to his home back in Voualsk. He and Inessa had agreed to lie to his mother, assuring her that they were now living in a new apartment. His mother had been comforted by the lie as though she herself were now living in that new apartment too. Approaching his mother’s house, Nesterov checked his watch. He’d left at six this morning and it was now coming up to nine in the evening. Fifteen hours had been spent for the gain of no real information. His time was up. Tomorrow they were returning home.
He entered the settlement’s courtyard. Washing hung from side to side. He could see his own clothes among them. He touched them. They were dry. Moving through the washing, he approached the door of his mother’s apartment, entering the kitchen.
Inessa was seated on a wooden stool, her face bloody, her hands tied. Behind her stood a man he didn’t recognize. Without trying to figure out what had happened or who this man was, Nesterov strode forward, overwhelmed with anger. He didn’t care that the man was wearing a uniform: he’d kill him all the same, whoever he was. He raised his fist. Before he could get close, pain engulfed his hand. Looking to the side he saw a woman, perhaps forty years old. She was holding a black truncheon. He’d seen her face before. He remembered now—on the beach, two days ago. In her other hand she held a gun, casually, enjoying her position of power. She gestured to her officer. He stepped forward, throwing a selection of papers onto the floor. Falling around their feet was every document he’d accumulated over the past two months, photos, descriptions, maps—the case file of the murdered children:
—General Nesterov, you’re under arrest.
VOUALSK
7 JULY
LEO AND RAISA GOT OFF THE TRAIN, waiting on the platform, pretending to fix their bags until all the other passengers had moved into the main building. It was late but not yet dark, and feeling exposed, they climbed off the platform, hurrying into the forest.
Reaching the spot where they’d hidden their belongings, Leo stopped, catching his breath. He stared up at the trees, wondering at his decision to destroy the letter. Had he done his parents a disservice? He understood why they’d wanted to write down their thoughts and feelings: they’d wanted to make their peace. But Raisa had been right about him when she’d said:
Is that how you’re able to sleep at night, by blanking events from your mind?
She was more right than she knew.
Raisa touched his arm:
—Are you okay?
She’d asked him what was in the letter. He’d considered lying and telling her it contained information about his family—personal details that he’d forgotten. But she’d have known he was lying. So, instead, he’d told her the truth; that he’d destroyed the letter, ripped it into a hundred pieces, thrown it out the window. He didn’t want to read it. His parents could rest easily believing that they’d unburdened themselves. To his relief she hadn’t questioned his decision and hadn’t mentioned it since.
Using their hands they dug away at the cover of leaves and loose soil, unearthing their belongings. They took off their city clothes, intending to change back into the trail gear they’d set out in—a necessary part of their cover. Undressed, alone, they paused, naked, staring at each other. Perhaps it was the danger, perhaps it was opportunistic, but Leo wanted her. Uncertain about her feelings for him, he did nothing, waiting, afraid to make the first move, as though they’d never had sex before, as though this was their first time with both of them unsure of the boundaries, unsure what was acceptable and what wasn’t. She reached out, touching his hand. That was enough. He pulled her toward him, kissing her. They’d murdered together, deceived together, plotted and planned and lied together. They were criminals, the two of them, them against the world. It was time to consummate this new relationship. If only they could stay here, live here in this exact moment, hidden in the forest, enjoying these feelings forever.
They rejoined the forest trail, walking into town. Arriving at Basarov’s, they entered the main room. Leo was holding his breath, expecting hands to grab his shoulders. But there was no one here, no agents and no officers. They were safe, at least for another day. Basarov was in the kitchen and didn’t even turn round when he heard them arrive.
Upstairs they unlocked their room. A note had been pushed under the door. Leo put his bags down on the bed. He picked up the note. It was from Nesterov, dated today:
Leo, if you’re back as planned, meet me tonight in my office at nine. Come alone. Bring all documents relating to the matter we’ve been discussing. Leo, it’s very important that you’re not late.
Leo checked his watch. He had half an hour.
SAME DAY
EVEN BACK IN THE MILITIA HEADQUARTERS, Leo was taking no chances. He’d hidden the papers inside official documents. The blinds to Nesterov’s office were drawn shut and it was impossible to see in. He checked his watch: he was late, two minutes late. Unable to see how that would matter particularly, he knocked on the door. Almost as soon as he did the door was opened, as though Nesterov had been waiting behind it. Leo was ushered in with a sudden, inexplicable urgency, the door shut behind him.
Nesterov was moving with an uncharacteristic impatience. His desk was covered with documents from the case file. He took hold of Leo by the shoulders and spoke in a hushed, hurried voice:
—Listen very carefully and don’t interrupt. I was arrested in Rostov. I was forced to confess. I had no choice. They had my family. I told them everything. I thought I might be able to persuade them to help, persuade them that they should elevate our case to an official level. They reported it back to Moscow. They’ve accused us of anti-Soviet agitation. They think this is a personal vendetta you have against the State, an act of revenge. They dismissed our findings as an elaborate piece of Western propaganda: they’re certain that you and your wife are working as spies. They offered me a choice. They’re prepared to leave my family alone if I give them you and all the information we’ve collected.
Leo’s world fell away. Even though he’d known danger was close, he hadn’t expected it to cut across his path just yet:
—When?
—Right now. The building’s surrounded. Agents will enter this room in fifteen minutes, arresting you in this office and collecting every piece of evidence we’ve amassed. I’m to spend these minutes finding out all the information you discovered in Moscow.
Leo stepped back, looking at his watch; it was five past nine:
—Leo, you have to listen to me. There’s a way for you to escape. But for this to work, don’t interrupt, don’t ask any questions. I’ve come up with a plan. You’re going to hit me with my gun, knocking me unconscious. You’re then going to leave this office, go down one flight of stairs, and hide in the offices to the right of the stairway. Leo, are you listening? You need to concentrate. The doors are unlocked. Go into them, don’t turn on the lights, and lock the doors behind you.
But Leo wasn’t listening—all he could think about was:
—Raisa?
—She’s being arrested as we speak. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do about her. You need to concentrate, Leo, or this is over.
—This is over. This was over the moment you told them everything.
—They had everything, Leo. They had my work. They had my file. What was I supposed to do? Let them kill my family? They still would’ve arrested you. Leo, you can get angry with me, or you can escape.
Leo shook free of Nesterov’s grip, pacing the office, his mind trying to catch up. Raisa had been arrested. They’d both known this moment would come but had understood it only as a concept, an idea. They hadn’t understood what it would mean. The prospect of
never seeing her again made it difficult to breathe. Their relationship, their relationship reborn, consummated barely two hours ago in the forest, was over.
—Leo?
What would she want? She wouldn’t want him to get sentimental. She’d want him to succeed, to escape, to listen to this man.
—Leo?
—All right, what’s your plan?
Nesterov continued, recapping the first part:
—You’re going to hit me with my gun, knocking me unconscious. You’re then going to leave this office, go down one flight of stairs, and hide in the offices to the right of the stairway. Hide in those offices; wait until the agents enter the building. They’ll come up to this floor, passing you by. Once they’ve gone past, you descend to the ground floor, exiting through one of the windows at the back. There’s a car parked there. Here are the keys, which you will have stolen from me. You have to leave town, don’t look for anyone or stop for anything, just drive. You will have a small advantage. They’ll believe that you’re on foot, somewhere in the town. By the time they realize you’ve taken a car, you should be free.
—Free to do what?
—To solve these crimes.
—My trip to Moscow was a washout. The eyewitness refused to talk. I still don’t have any more of an idea of who this man is.
That took Nesterov by surprise.
—Leo, you can do this, I know it. I believe in you. You need to head to Rostov-on-Don. That’s the center of these crimes. I’m convinced that’s where your efforts must be focused. There are theories about who is killing these children. One involves a group of former Nazi—
Leo interrupted:
—No, it’s the work of an individual, acting alone. He has a job. He appears normal. If you’re sure the concentration of murders is Rostov then it’s likely he lives and works there. His job is the connection between all these locations. His job means that he travels: he kills as he travels. If we can work out his job, then we have the man.
Leo checked his watch. There were only minutes left before he’d have to leave. Nesterov put his fingers on the two towns in question:
—What is the connection between Rostov and Voualsk? There have been no murders east of this town. At least that we know of. That suggests that this is the endpoint, this is his destination.
Leo agreed:
—Voualsk has the car assembly plant. There are no other significant industries here other than the lumber mills. But there are lots of factories in Rostov.
Nesterov knew both locations better than Leo:
—The car assembly plant and the Rostelmash share close ties.
—What is the Rostelmash?
—A tractor factory, enormous, the biggest in the USSR.
—Do they share components?
—The tires for the GAZ-20 are manufactured there. Parts of the engines are made here.
Could that be the connection? The murders followed the train lines up from the south and across into the west, point to point. Running with this theory, Leo remarked:
—If Voualsk sends deliveries to the Rostelmash factory then that factory must employ a tolkach. Someone travels here to make sure the car assembly plant fulfills its quota obligations.
—There have only been two child murders here and they were recent. The factories have been working together for some time.
—The murders in the north of the country have been the most recent. That means he’s just gotten this job. Or that he’s only just been posted along this route. We need the employment records at Rostelmash. If we’re right, by cross-referencing those records with the locations of these murders we’ll have the man.
They were close. If they weren’t being hunted, if they had the freedom to act at their leisure, they could’ve discovered the killer’s name by the end of the week. But they didn’t have a week, or the support of the State. They had four minutes. It was eleven past nine. Leo had to leave. He took one document—the list of murders, compiled with dates and locations. That was all he needed. Having folded it into his pocket he moved to the door. Nesterov stopped him. He was holding his gun. Leo took hold of the weapon, delaying for a moment. Nesterov saw this hesitation and remarked:
—Or my family will die.
Leo struck him across the side of his head, splitting the skin and sending him to his knees. Still conscious, Nesterov looked up:
—Good luck, now hit me properly.
Leo raised the gun. Nesterov closed his eyes.
Hurrying into the corridor, Leo reached the stairs, only to realize he’d forgotten the car keys. They were on the table. He turned around, ran back down the corridor into the office, stepping over Nesterov, grabbing the keys. He was late—nine-fifteen, agents were entering the building. Leo was still in the office, exactly where they wanted him. He ran out, down the corridor, down the stairs. He could hear footsteps coming up toward him. Reaching the third floor, he darted to the right, grabbing hold of the nearest office door. It was unlocked as Nesterov had promised. He entered, locking the door behind him just as the agents ran up the stairs.
Leo waited in the gloom. All the blinds had been closed so that no one from outside could see in. He could hear the clump of footsteps. There were at least four agents on this stairway. He was tempted to remain in this room, behind this locked door, in temporary safety. The windows opened out onto the main square. He glanced out. There was a ring of men outside the main entrance. He pulled away from the window. He had to reach the ground floor and the back. He unlocked the door, peering out. The corridor was empty. Shutting the door behind him, he moved to the stairway. He could hear an agent’s voice below him. Leo ran to the next stairway. He couldn’t see or hear anyone. As soon as he began running, shouting broke out on the top floor: they’d found Nesterov.
A second wave of agents entered the building, alerted by the calls of their colleagues. It was too much of a risk going down another flight of steps, and abandoning Nesterov’s plan, Leo remained on the second floor. He only had a few moments of confusion to exploit before the men would organize themselves into search teams. Unable to reach the ground floor, he ran along the corridor, entering the toilet, a room facing out onto the back of the building. He opened the window. The window was high up, narrow, barely wide enough to squeeze through. The only way he’d fit was if he clambered headfirst. Checking outside, he couldn’t see any officers. He was maybe five meters above the ground. He pulled his body through the window, hanging above the ground, supported by his feet. There was nothing to grab on to. He’d have to let himself fall, protecting his head with his hands.
He hit the ground with his palms, his wrists snapping back. He heard a shout, looked up. An agent was at the top-floor window. Leo had been spotted. Ignoring the pain in his wrists, he stood up, running toward the side street where the car was meant to be parked. Shots rang out. Puffs of brick dust exploded to the side of his head. He dropped down, crouching, still running. More shots rang out, pinging off the street. He turned the corner out of the line of fire.
The car was there, parked, ready. He clambered in, slotting the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered and died. He tried again. It wouldn’t start. He tried again—please—this time it started. Putting the car into gear, he pulled out, accelerating, careful not to let the tires screech. It was crucial that the agents following didn’t see the car. He’d be one of the few cars on the streets. Since it was a militia vehicle, hopefully any officers who saw it would presume he was on their side while they continued their search on foot.
There was no traffic. Leo was driving too fast, too ragged, heading out of the city. Nesterov was wrong: he couldn’t drive all the way to Rostov. For a start, it was several hundred kilometers, he didn’t have anywhere near enough gas, and he had no way of getting any more. More importantly, once they figured out that he’d taken a car they’d shut down all the roads. He had to get as far away as he could, then dump the car, conceal it, and slip into the countryside, before boarding a train. As long as they
didn’t find the abandoned car his chances were much better without it.
He accelerated onto the only major connecting road that led in and out of town, traveling west. He checked the rearview mirror. If they were going to organize a comprehensive search of the nearby buildings, believing him to be on foot, then he might have at least an hour or so head start. He increased his speed, reaching the car’s top speed of eighty kilometers per hour.
Up ahead there were men standing on the road clustered around a parked car: a militia car. It was a roadblock. They’d taken no chances. If the road west was blocked, so was the road heading east. They’d closed down the entire town. His only hope now lay in punching through this roadblock. He’d pick up enough speed, smash into the car positioned across the road. The car would be knocked aside. He’d have to control the impact. With their car damaged, they wouldn’t be able to pursue him immediately. It was desperate, shortening his advantage to a matter of minutes.
The agents up ahead began firing. Bullets hit the front of the car, sparking against the metal. A bullet punctured the windshield. Leo lowered himself behind the steering wheel, no longer able to see the road. The car was in position: he just had to hold steady. Bullets continued smashing through the windshield. Fragments of glass showered down. He was still on course—braced for the collision.
The car lurched down and to the side. Sitting back up in the seat, Leo tried to maintain control, but the car veered left, pulling away from him. The tires had been shot out. There was nothing he could do. The car flipped onto its side, the side window smashing. He was thrown against the door, millimeters from the road, skidding, sparks flaring up. The front smashed into the other car, spinning Leo’s car around. It rolled onto its roof, running off the road onto the shoulder. Leo was tossed from the door to the roof, where he lay huddled as the car finally came to a stop.
