Tom Rob Smith_Leo Demidov_01

by Child 44

  44

  Vasili’s finger tapped the number. He picked up the phone.

  —Bring me Officer Fyodor Andreev.

  Since Vasili had been promoted he’d been rewarded with his own office—a small space admittedly, but one of which he was immensely proud, as if each square meter had been personally conquered during a military campaign. There was a knock on the door. Fyodor Andreev entered, now one of Vasili’s subordinates: a youngish man, loyal, hardworking, and not too bright, perfect virtues in a subordinate. He was nervous. Vasili smiled, gesturing for Fyodor to sit down:

  —Thank you for coming. I need your help.

  —Certainly, sir.

  —You’re aware that Leo Demidov is a fugitive?

  —Yes sir, I’ve heard.

  —What do you know of the reasons behind Leo’s arrest?

  —Nothing.

  —We believed that he was working for Western governments, collecting information—spying. But that turns out not to be true. We were wrong. Leo wouldn’t tell us anything during his interrogation. Now, belatedly, I’ve found out that he was working on this.

  Fyodor stood up, staring at the case file on the table. He’d seen these documents before. They’d been taped to Leo’s chest. Fyodor was beginning to sweat. He leaned forward, as though examining the papers for the first time, trying to hide the fact that he was trembling. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Vasili had moved and was now standing beside him, staring down at the pages, as though they were working together, partners. Vasili’s finger slid across the map, slowly, reaching Moscow and tapping:

  44

  Fyodor felt sick. He turned his head to see Vasili’s face close to his own.

  —Fyodor, we know Leo came to Moscow recently. I now believe that rather than spying, this journey was in fact part of his investigation. You see, he believes that a murder took place here. Your son was murdered, am I correct?

  —No sir. He was killed in an accident. He was cut down by a train.

  —Leo was sent to deal with the matter?

  —Yes, but—

  —And at the time you believed that the boy was murdered, am I right?

  —At the time, I was upset, it was very difficult . . .

  —So, when Leo came back to Moscow to investigate, it wasn’t your child that he was interested in?

  —No sir.

  —How do you know?

  —Sir?

  —How do you know what Leo was or wasn’t interested in?

  Vasili took a seat, glancing at his fingernails, pretending to be hurt:

  —Fyodor, you obviously have a very low opinion of me.

  —That’s not true, sir.

  —You must understand that if Leo is right, if there is a child murderer, then he needs to be caught. I want to help Leo. Fyodor, I have children of my own. It is my duty as a father and as an officer to stop these terrible crimes. This supersedes any personal animosity that exists between Leo and myself. If I wanted Leo dead, I would simply do nothing. At the moment everyone considers both him and his wife to be spies. They will be shot on sight and I fear their investigation will be lost. More children will die. However, if I had all the facts, I might be able to persuade my superiors to call off the manhunt. If I don’t, what chance do Leo and Raisa have?

  —None.

  Vasili nodded, pleased with the confirmation. It was true, then: Leo was convinced that there was one man responsible for all these deaths. Vasili continued:

  —My point exactly. They have no money, they’re hundreds of kilometers from their destination.

  —Where did they escape?

  Fyodor’s second mistake, revealing that he too believed Leo would be intent on catching this killer. All Vasili needed now was the destination itself. He pointed east of Moscow, the train lines, and watched as Fyodor’s eyes moved from that position, across the map, southwards. Leo was heading south. But Vasili still needed a name. Coaxing Fyodor, he remarked:

  —The majority of the murders are taking place in the south.

  —Just from glancing at this map . . .

  Fyodor paused. It was possible to tip Vasili off without incriminating himself. They could then jointly petition their superior officers to change their mind about Leo and Raisa. Fyodor had been looking for a way to help them. This was it: he’d turn them from villains into heroes. When they’d met in Moscow, Leo had mentioned that a militia officer had traveled to Rostov to confirm that the city was the most probable location of the killer. Fyodor pretended to scrutinize the papers:

  —Judging from the concentration of the murders, I’d say the city of Rostov-on-Don. All the early murders were in the south. He must live there or somewhere near there.

  —Rostov?

  —What do you think the best way of convincing our superiors will be?

  —I need to understand everything. We’d be taking a great risk, putting our necks on the line. We have to be sure. Show me again, why do you believe this killer lives in the south?

  With Fyodor engrossed in the documents, talking about this and that, Vasili stood up, stepped around the desk, drew his gun, and aimed at Fyodor’s heart.

  SOUTHEASTERN ROSTOV OBLAST

  14 JULY

  LEO AND RAISA WERE IN A CRATE one meter high and two meters wide: human cargo—contraband—in the process of being smuggled south. After the military had completed their search of the kolkhoz, the villagers had taken Leo and Raisa by truck to the nearest town, Ryazan, where they’d introduced them to friends and family. In the stifling heat of a small apartment filled with an audience of nearly thirty and the fog of cheap cigarette smoke, Leo had told the story of their investigation. No one needed any convincing as to the urgency of the objective and no one had any difficulty believing that the militia had proved useless in dealing with the killer. They’d never turned to the militia for help or taken their disputes to the authorities, always depending on each other. This was the same, except at stake were the lives of an unknowable number of children.

  Together, as a collective, plans were laid to transport them south. One member of the audience worked as a truck driver shuttling loads between Moscow and towns such as Samara and Kharkov. Kharkov was some three hundred kilometers north of Rostov, half a day’s drive. Though it was decided that driving into Rostov itself was too risky since the driver had no business there, he’d be prepared to take them to the nearby town of Shakhty. He could legitimately pass off this diversion by claiming that he was visiting family. That same family would, after listening to the story, almost certainly agree to help Leo and Raisa travel into the city.

  At the very least they had a day and a half in this crate, cooped up in complete darkness. The driver was transporting bananas, luxury exotic goods intended for the spetztorgi. Their crate was positioned at the back of the truck wedged under other crates all filled with precious fruit. It was hot and dry and the journey uncomfortable. There were breaks every three to four hours when the driver would stop, slide off the crates above them, letting his human cargo stretch their legs and relieve themselves by the side of the road.

  In complete darkness, with their legs crossed over each other, in opposite corners of the crate, Raisa asked:

  —Do you trust him?

  —Who?

  —The driver.

  —You don’t?

  —I don’t know.

  —You must have some reason for asking?

  —Of all the people listening to the story he was the only one who didn’t have any questions. He didn’t seem to engage with it. It didn’t shake him as it shook the others. He seems blank to me, practical, unemotional.

  —He didn’t have to help us. And he’s not going to be able to betray us and then go back to his friends and family.

  —He could make something up. There was a roadblock. We were caught. He tried to help us but there was nothing he could do.

  —What do you suggest?

  —At the next stop, you could overpower him, tie him up, and drive th
e truck yourself.

  —You’re serious?

  —The only way to be sure, to be absolutely certain, is to take his truck. We’d have his papers. We’d have our lives back in our hands, back under our control. We’re helpless like this. We don’t know where he’s taking us.

  —You were the one who taught me to trust in the goodness of strangers.

  —This man isn’t like the others. He seems ambitious. He spends his entire day transporting luxury items. He must think: I want that, I want those fine textiles, those rare foods. He understands that we’re an opportunity. He knows how much he can sell us for. And he knows the price he’ll pay for being caught with us.

  —I’m hardly the one to say this, Raisa, but you’re talking about an innocent man, a man who seems to be risking his life to help us.

  —I’m talking about guaranteeing that we reach Rostov.

  —Isn’t this how it starts? You have a cause you believe in, a cause worth dying for. Soon, it’s a cause worth killing for. Soon, it’s a cause worth killing innocent people for.

  —We wouldn’t have to kill him.

  —Yes we would, because we couldn’t leave him tied up on the roadside. That would be a far greater risk. We either kill him, or trust him. Raisa, this is how things fall apart. We’ve been fed, sheltered, and transported by these people. If we turn on them, execute one of their friends for no reason other than as a precaution, I’d be the same man you despised in Moscow.

  Even though he couldn’t see her, he knew she was smiling.

  —Were you testing me?

  —Just making conversation.

  —Did I pass?

  —That depends on whether we get to Shakhty or not.

  After a stretch of silence Raisa asked:

  —What happens once this is over?

  —I don’t know.

  —The West will want you, Leo. They’ll protect you.

  —I’d never leave this country.

  —Even if this country is going to kill you?

  —If you want to defect, I’ll do everything I can to get you onto a boat.

  —What are you going to do? Hide in the hills?

  —Once that man is dead, once you’re safely out of the country, I’m going to turn myself in. I don’t want to live in exile, among people that want my information but hate me. I don’t want to live as a foreigner. I can’t do it. It would mean that everything these people in Moscow have said about me would be true.

  —And that’s the most important thing?

  Raisa sounded hurt. Leo touched her arm:

  —Raisa, I don’t understand.

  —Is it that complicated? I want us to stay together.

  Leo said nothing for a moment. Finally he replied:

  —I can’t live as a traitor. I can’t do it.

  —Which means we’ve got about twenty-four hours left?

  —I’m sorry.

  —We should make the most of this time together.

  —How do we do that?

  —We tell each other the truth.

  —The truth?

  —We must have secrets. I know I have some. Don’t you? Things you’ve never told me.

  —Yes.

  —Then I’ll go first. I used to spit in your tea. After I heard about Zoya’s arrest, I was convinced you’d reported her. So, for about a week, I spat in your tea.

  —You spat in my tea?

  —For about a week.

  —Why did you stop?

  —You didn’t seem to care.

  —I didn’t notice.

  —Exactly. Okay, your turn.

  —Truthfully—

  —That’s the point of this game.

  —I don’t think you married me because you were afraid. I think you scouted me out. You made it look like you were scared. You gave me a false name and I pursued you. But I think you targeted me.

  —I’m a foreign agent?

  —You might know of people working for Western agencies. Maybe you were helping them. Maybe that idea was at the back of your mind when you married me.

  —That’s not a secret, that’s speculation. You have to share secrets—hard facts.

  —I found a kopeck in among your clothes, the coin could be split in two—it’s a device for smuggling microfilm. Agents use them. No one else would have one.

  —Why didn’t you denounce me?

  —I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t do it.

  —Leo, I didn’t marry you as a way of getting close to the MGB. I told you the truth before, I was scared.

  —And the coin?

  —That coin was mine . . .

  Her voice drifted off, as though weighing up whether or not to continue:

  —I didn’t use it to carry microfilm. I used it to carry cyanide paste, when I was a refugee.

  Raisa had never spoken about the period after her home had been destroyed, the months on the road—the dark ages of her life. Leo waited, nervous at what he was about to hear.

  —I’m sure you can imagine the kind of things that happened to women refugees. Soldiers, they had needs, they were risking their lives—they were owed. We were their payment. After one time—and there were several—I hurt so much, I swore if it ever happened again, if it ever looked like happening again, I’d rub that paste across his gums. They could kill me, hang me, but maybe it would make them think twice about doing it to another woman. Anyway, it became my lucky coin because as soon as I started carrying it I never had any problems. Maybe men can sense a woman with cyanide in her pocket. Of course, it didn’t cure the injuries I’d sustained. There was no medicine. That’s the reason I can’t get pregnant, Leo.

  Leo stared into the darkness, at the place where he imagined his wife must be. During the war women had been raped during the occupation and then raped again by their liberators. As a soldier he knew such activity had been sanctioned by the State, considered part of the fabric of war and an appropriate reward for a brave soldier. Cyanide had been used by some to take their own lives in the face of impossible horrors. Leo supposed that most men might’ve checked the woman for a blade or a gun, but a coin—that would’ve slipped their attention. He rubbed the palm of her hand. What else could he do? Apologize? Say he understood? He’d framed the newspaper clipping, hung it on the wall, proud, oblivious to what that war meant to her.

  —Leo, I have another secret. I’ve fallen in love with you.

  —I’ve always loved you.

  —That’s not a secret, Leo. You’re three secrets behind.

  Leo kissed her:

  —I have a brother.

  ROSTOV-ON-DON

  15 JULY

  NADYA WAS ALONE IN THE HOUSE. Her mother and sister had gone to visit their grandmother, and although Nadya had initially accompanied them, as they’d approached her grandmother’s apartment block she’d feigned a stomachache and begged to be allowed to return. Her mother had agreed and Nadya had hurried back home. Her plan was simple. She was going to open the basement door and find out why her father spent so long downstairs in what must be a dark, cold room. She’d never been down there, not once. She’d walked around the building feeling the damp bricks and imagining what it must be like inside. There were no windows, just a ventilation hole for the stove. It was strictly forbidden, out of bounds, an unbreakable rule of the house.

  Her father was on a work trip at the moment. But he’d be back soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, and she’d heard him talk about improving their home, which included building a new door for the basement. Not the front door, not the door that everyone used and which kept the warmth in. His first priority was the basement door. Admittedly it was flimsy, but all the same. Why was it so important? In a couple of days he’d have fitted a new door which she wouldn’t be able to open. If she wanted to break in, if she wanted answers to her questions, she had to do it now. The lock was a simple latch. She’d studied it carefully and tested it to see if a knife could be squeezed in between the door and the frame, lifting up the latch. It could.


  The latch raised, Nadya pushed the door open. Excited, afraid, she took a step down. She released the door and it swung shut. Some light crept in behind her, under the door and around the sides. Other than that the only light came through the ventilation hole downstairs. Adjusting her eyes to the gloom, she reached the bottom of the stairs and surveyed her father’s secret room.

  A bed, a stove, a small table, and a chest—there was nothing mysterious. Disappointed, she snooped around. An old lamp hung on the wall, and pinned up beside it were a series of newspaper clippings. She walked toward them. They were all the same: a photograph of a Russian soldier standing beside a burning tank. Some of the photographs had been cropped so that all you could see was the soldier. He was handsome. She didn’t recognize him. Puzzled by this collage, she picked up a tin plate which had been left on the floor, no doubt for the cats. Turning her attention to the chest, she put her hands on the top and lifted, just a little, just to see if it was locked. The wooden lid was heavy but it wasn’t locked. What was inside? She lifted it a little more; suddenly she heard another noise—the front door.

  There were heavy footsteps, too heavy for her mother. Her father must have returned early. Light appeared as the door to the basement was opened. Why was he back so soon? Panicking, Nadya lowered the lid, trying not to make a noise, listening to her father’s footsteps coming down the stairs. With the lid closed she dropped to her knees and clambered under the bed, squeezing herself into the small space, watching the bottom step. There they were—his big black boots, coming right toward her.

  Nadya closed her eyes, expecting when she opened her eyes to see his furious face inches away from her. Instead, the entire bed creaked and sank. He was sitting on it. Opening her eyes, she had to scramble out of the way. With the gap between the bed and the floor even smaller she watched as he began to untie his bootlaces. He didn’t know she was here. The latch must have locked after she’d shut it. She hadn’t been caught, not yet. What was she going to do? Her father could spend hours down here. Her mother would return and be alarmed that Nadya wasn’t home. Perhaps they’d think she was missing and go looking for her. If they did she’d be able to sneak upstairs and tell some lie about where she’d been. That was her best hope. Until then she had to remain where she was and keep very quiet.